When we last left our heroes…NUTMEG and GEL, along with woodsman GEORGE, set out for CAER KARNAK to harry the scouts of the RED HAND. Although they successfully bloodied the horde’s nose, they were driven from the keep by AGHARAGOTH, the RED RUIN, draconic forerunner of the horde. In the fray, GEORGE vanished into the undergrowth, while the boys fled back to TANNER’S CROSSING…
Table of Contents
- Chapter 1 – In Which One Day Remains
- Chapter 2 – In Which Tim’s Sword Glows
- Chapter 3 – In Which Sendivogius Throws Something
- Chapter 4 – In Which Nutmeg Does Some Very Stupid Things
- Chapter 5 – In Which They Get Out of Here
- Chapter 6 – In the Wastelands
Chapter 1 – In Which One Day Remains
The sun had been up for two hours by the time they reached the river. Last night’s storms had left a field of granite-colored clouds stretching from horizon to horizon, and the road was still slick from the nighttime rain. They came at length to the western shore of the Hestor River, and whistled for the ferryman to send the raft across.
“Who goes there?” came the reply.
“Hey, that’s pretty good,” said Gel. “They’re learning.”
“IT’S US, DICKNUT!” Nutmeg was in a foul mood. He still couldn’t believe they’d lost George. He hoped fervently that the woodsman had escaped into the trees, but it was hard to believe such a thing possible. The inferno was visible even now, a tower of black smoke behind them rising from a smoky sea. The Hagwood was burning, and would likely burn for months, even without the help of a horde of hobgoblins. A thought touched the back of his mind, just for a moment: it’s like in Dwarroway. Once the fire starts…he set the thought aside.
The ferryman must have been satisfied with their answer – or recognized them across the wide river. He hitched the mules to the capstans and set them on their plodding way, and the pulley creaked and groaned as the wide-bottomed ferry plugged across the river.
“Definitely need to destroy that.”
“Oh absolutely.”
They boarded and crossed. Nutmeg watched the currents in the river. The Hestor was fat and lazy here, but the night rain had lent a little speed to the water. Would his plan still work? It had to. It had to work.
When they stepped off on the eastern shore, Nutmeg turned to address the ferryman. He was interrupted, however, by a loud, commanding voice.
“So! The Hob! Gob! Killin’! Mob!” From around the corner of the building came Aberthol the druid. He looked the same as he had in the circle of stones: tall, worryingly skinny, draped in his mossy robe.
“Oh hey man, what’s up.”
“Great deeds are afoot! The Thirteen Circles of Thirteen have granted me lief to do as I will here at the so-called ‘town’ of Tanner’s Crossing!” He lowered his voice, which put it about the level of a normal person trying to get someone’s attention across a crowded barroom. “The other Keepers were deadly concerned when I said the name of Daghda. Mighty worried they are.” As if to emphasize the level of concern, Aberthol wiggled his index finger at the ground. An earthworm sprang up, twisted and writhed to the rhythm of Aberthol’s gesture, and then lay still, probably exhausted, as the druid lowered his hand.
“If they’re that worried, how come you’re all the help we get?”
“You dinnae grasp what ye ask. The Keepers of the Thirteen Circles of Thirteen keep all the world in our charge. I am druid of but this one small corner.” He glowered at the western sky. “And I see they’ve set aboot burning that while I’ve been gone. I will bleed them and fry them!” Lightning crackled at Aberthol’s fingertips. “Come, take me to my fellow defenders.”
“Yeah do you need a room at the inn or anything?”
“A rOOm?” Apoplexy shone in Aberthol’s eyes.
“Ah geeze.”
They did their best to avoid further triggering conversations as they led Aberthol to the Red Apple inn, the headquarters of the ragtag militia. The town had transformed in their absence. No children ran in the street now. Many doors and windows were boarded. On the Green, militiafolk were drilling with spear and club. There weren’t many proper armaments to be had in the town, and the good stuff was reserved for those who knew how to swing it. By one corner of the green, a tall woman with short, stubbly blond hair and terrific armor was drilling a group of louts on the proper way to sling a stone. Nutmeg grinned. He had missed Sister D.
“Boys!” Captain Anna Thornspur approached from the edge of the green. She had doffed her armor, and carried a few heavy planks over one shoulder. “You’re back! Where’s George?”
“Ah, shit.” Gel looked to Nutmeg, Nutmeg shrugged. “Yeah. We got – attacked by a dragon. George did a runner into the shrubberies. Last we saw him.”
The planks fell from Anna’s shoulder. For a moment, grief shrank the good captain, until Nutmeg thought she looked barely an adult, more a child in an adult’s costume. He blinked. There she still stood: Anna Thornspur,battered by sorrow but still hard as nails.
“Well, if he went out to a dragon…maybe he was happier for that. He hated getting old, you know.”
“Kinda seemed like he reveled in it.”
“No, that was just…his way. He told me once – gods, it was only a few months ago, now. Feels like a lifetime – he told me once that he was worried one day he wouldn’t be able to leave the house and go into the woods, and the dogs would all waste away without him to provide.”
At that, they all three froze. Aberthol didn’t freeze, but he was barely paying attention anyway.
“Oh shit. The dogs.”
“I’ll go.” Anna spoke quickly and firmly. “I’ll go. Those dogs know me and love me. I can be back in a few hours”
“I’ll come too,” said Gel. Nutmeg cocked an eyebrow, and the elf shrugged. “I mean, someone should help, and you can’t handle dogs.”
“I can handle dogs.”
“Not without violence.”
“Maybe.”
“Yeah, okay,” Anna interrupted. “You can take over for me here, Nutmeg. We’re getting to work on some barricades on the beach.”
The bustle of the day swept Nutmeg up. It was not hard to find a task to do. He lugged lumber with the town guards down to the edge of the river. There was a sandy beach just to the south of the customs house/jail/courtroom/town offices, and here they erected the crude barricades. Nothing too impressive, just walls of lumber and spare stone behind which the militiafolk could shelter from the horde’s arrows. Nutmeg found that he was very, very grateful to have something physical to focus on. Lifting and hauling and stacking and dragging.
The clouds never gave way. Late in the afternoon, Nutmeg paused for a picnic lunch under the gray and somber sky. There wasn’t much variety in the victuals remaining, but some hearty cheeses and cold sausages made for a filling meal, if not a tasty one.
Sister D joined him. She brought with her a cask of golden ale, which they tapped. Nutmeg filled a cup for Sister D, and then drank straight from the cask while she sipped. They swapped stories: he told her of the raids from Caer Karnak, the flight in the night, the loss of George. She told him of the goings-on in Tanner’s Crossing.
“The last of the willing townsfolk were evacuated two days ago. Heading east for Barrendell. We have a few wagons remaining for when we need to flee the town, but it’s really just the militia left. Harmel followed your instructions about his lamp-oil, but he fled in the night last night, and left some other folks in charge of the execution. Brother Darn and I have been doing what we can – he’s been wonderfully helpful, although a bit…provincial.”
“Provincial?” Nutmeg bit a sausage in half and washed it down with a cheek-bulging mouthful of ale.
“He makes me think of what I would have been, had I stayed in Torold’s Pass.”
“Ah. Lame.”
“Kindly, and good,” she said. “But no adventurer, that’s for sure.” She brightened. “Oh! That’s right. Darn and I uncovered an old store of potions beneath the general mercantile. It looked like they were stowed there by someone who had stolen them. But with no rightful owner in sight…” Dondalla shrugged. “We requisitioned them for use in the defense of the town.”
“Healing potions?”
“Mostly, mostly…and one potion of flying.”
“Does that do what I think it does?”
“…yes, if you drink it you can fly.”
“Nice.”
When the picnic was done, they headed to the ferry, watching for Anna and Gel. Sure enough, it wasn’t long before they saw the captain and the elf returning from the burning west, six dogs following them. They rode the ferry across. Nutmeg stayed a good distance back when the dogs reached the east bank. They all orbited Anna like ducklings following a mother.
“No trouble, then?” asked Nutmeg.
“Nah.” Gel gestured at the wall of smoke and flame back in the Hagwood. “I mean, it sucks over there right now. But the horde hadn’t made it to George’s place yet.”
“Yet.” Nutmeg snapped his fingers. “Oh shit hey, you know what, we still gotta destroy the ferry.”
“Yeah, come on, let’s talk to the guy.”
Captain Anna Thornspur led the dogs away. The Hob Gob Killin’ Mob went to speak to the ferryman.
They found him feeding the mules a carrot apiece, scratching them behind the ears and complimenting them on their strength. The ferryman was stout and broad; he could’ve been a half-dwarf, a mule himself. He squinted at the trio as they approached.
“Here now? Crossing again, eh?”
“No more crossing at all,” said Gel. “We can’t let the ferry fall into the hands of the horde.”
“Gotta destroy it,” added Nutmeg, helpfully.
“Destroy it? Garn. Ain’t no way. You know who I am?”
“The uh, the ferryman?”
“I’m Dorgoth Tanner, son of Sham Tanner, son of Jobaliah Tanner, son of – well, son of the whole Tanner line. Last of the Tanners. Been a Tanner keeping the Crossing since the days of the old kingdom, and I don’t mean to stop now.”
Gel chuckled. “Come on, dude. Are you nuts? There’s a horde of hobgoblins coming and you want to just give them a ferry?”
“Can’t make it work with no mules, and I’m taking Chico and Scrappy outta town tonight.” Dorgoth Tanner lifted his chin in defiance.
“Are you serious?” Gel was incredulous. “You think they don’t have mules in the horde? Or something as strong as mules? What, did you get kicked in the head too many times?”
“Say it again.” Dorgoth balled his hands to fists. “Say it again about me and the mule kick.”
“Ok, ok.” Nutmeg held up his hands. This was ridiculous. “Dorgoth, I respect your traditions and all. But this is just a temporary blip. Surely there’s been times you had to close the crossing for, like, bad weather? Or the mules got sick or something?”
Reluctantly, as if he were revealing state secrets, Dorgoth nodded. “Ten year ago the winter froze the capstans. Closed the crossing for a month.”
“Well, that’s it then. It’s just a temporary weather event. Just a horde blowing through. Hell, we do this right, it might be over faster than that winter.”
Dorgoth squinted. “Hm.”
“He’s right,” added Sister D. “And I will say a prayer to Palladius over you, Chico, Scrappy, and the ferry itself, asking for a ray of sunlight when the clouds finally part.”
In the end, Dorgoth agreed. Sister D led him away. Nutmeg at least had the decency to wait until Dorgoth was well and truly out of sight before he took his axe to the capstans. The pulley-ropes shivered and snapped at a touch; the wood-and-stone mechanisms took longer to hew apart, but still came down in the end. The ferry itself he set adrift after scuttling a great hole in the raft; it drifted out into the current, listing wildly already, and before long it was on its end in the riverbed, just a little wooden tip jutting above the water.
It had to be enough.
Chapter 2 – In Which Tim’s Sword Glows
The sky was the color of beaten steel. Gel perched on the roof of the customs-house/town hall/jail, crossbow at his side, watching the west. Dawn had just begun to lighten the clouds, but all was still veiled beneath a gray curtain. The Day of Doom had come.
Shouts came from below, and he turned to look back. Riders on the east road, it looked like; horses churning up dust from the road. Spears flashed. He raised the crossbow – then set it down, and drew out instead his spyglass from Gatorsburg. Peering through, he could make out the livery of the riders. Fifty of them, give or take. Dressed in good armor. Red plumes decorated their helms, and the heraldry on their shields and breastplates was that of a prancing lion.
By the time Gel had scrambled down from his perch and joined Nutmeg at the east end of town, the riders were dismounting, unsheathing their swords, and stringing longbows. Their apparent leader wore a torc of jeweled silver atop her burnished breastplate. Her hair was cut short, and a long scar ran from one temple down across her cheek, parting her lips, and ended at the chin. She raised a hand in greeting.
“You – are you the Hob Gob Killin’ Mob?”
“Hell yeah we are. Hell yeah.”
“Well met. I am Zuri Antanna, Captain of the Lion Guard of Barrendell. We got your message.”
“Her message, actually,” said Gel, indicating Captain Anna. “You here to fight?”
“We’re here to help. We spoke with the refugees on the road. Have we arrived in time?”
“Yeah, just barely.” Gel nodded back at the west end of town. “Today’s the day.”
“And how many do we have?”
Nutmeg spoke up. “About four hundred from the town stuck around to fight. How many did you bring?”
“We are fifty, one Company of the Lion. Four hundred, you say? A doughty town, Tanner’s Crossing.”
“Well, it helps that we’re one hundred percent planning on running away. We’re just gonna bloody their nose a little.”
“You are in command here, then?” Zuri eyed Nutmeg. The dwarf puffed out his chest.
“Absolutely I am.”
“Eh.” Gel wiggled his hand. “Kinda.”
“It’s a team effort.”
Zuri snorted. “We’ll see how you fare, then. I’m not optimistic. But when Lord Marth says jump, we jump.”
They escorted the Lion Guard to the beachhead. The militia had all gathered there as well, taking positions behind the barricades as best they could. Of the four hundred-odd volunteers (and “volunteers”), perhaps two hundred were actually wielding weapons. The rest were in charge of logistics: the oil, of course, but also the first aid, and the escape wagons, and the horses, and and and. Aberthol stood with his feet in the shallows, chanting aloud in the secret Druidic tongue. Sister D and Brother Darn were moving among the ranks, distributing blessings and bolstering spirits.
“Where’s Sendivogius?” asked Nutmeg. “The wizard has a pretty big job.”
“He’ll be here,” said Anna. “He’s been pretty cagey these last few days. Working hard.”
“Heh. I bet.” Nutmeg did not provide an explanation to the baffled Anna.
Gel returned to his position atop the toll house while Nutmeg finished his preparations down below. Through the spyglass, Gel could see clearly across the Hestor to the west bank, and beyond. Smoke and haze issued forth from the Hagwood. But there, there above the treeline, the first winged shapes took loose form.
War drums echoed out. The water of the Hestor seemed to ripple and shake as the thunder of thousands of marching feet grew louder and louder. The creak of wagons and carts added to the song. Then the outriders emerged from the treeline. Warg riders, their goblin drivers hooting and crying – commands or jeers, it was hard to tell. Behind them, the ranks upon ranks of hobgoblins. Thousands. Easily. Distressingly, many marched in tight formation, a uniformity that bespoke a iron-willed force. Legions of green-skinned goblins, all bearing banners with the red hand on a field of black or yellow. Ogres and bugbears stood tall above their fellow troops; in the far ranks, Gel could even make out a few giants, heavy-browed and dragging great clubs or sacks of boulders. And the flying beasts! Manticores by the dozens with their all-too-human faces and lion bodies, but wyverns too, swooping on great batwings, lashing the air with barbed tails. And Aghoragoth the Red Ruin wheeling above them all, snorting flame and smoke.
Gel watched the defenders on the beach. As expected, a few of the militia turned and ran. They’d accounted for this. Nutmeg let them go without chastisement. What good would it do? They were just running earlier than everyone else. He peered through the spyglass. Hobgoblins were scrambling to the shore, dragging logs behind them. The sound of axes crashed and rang; the horde was preparing rafts. He propped up the crossbow on the edge of the roof and squinted down the sights. He picked out one hobgoblin in particular, an unremarkable specimen currently trying to lash two logs together with a thick, rough cord.
Thrum.
The bolt caught the hobgoblin right between the eyes. He fell. A cry went up among the forerunners of the horde – death! Death! The defenders replied with an orchestra of bowstrings. Arrows flew from the barricades. Only a few of the militia were able to even land an arrow on the far bank. But the message was sent.
The horde replied.
A bellow from Aghoragoth sent a score of manticores swooping to a regiment of hobgoblins. The hobgoblins, clearly ready for the signal, raised their arms over their heads, hands clasped on forearms. The manticores flew in formation, grasping a hobgoblin in their paws and continuing in seamless motion, winging out over the Hestor River. It almost looked comical, the bloodthirsty hobgoblins dangling from the monstrous manticores. But there was murder in their eyes and the song of battle at their backs. The defenders on the beach loosed arrows upwards, but most shots fell short, and the manticores shrugged off any that hit home. Gel did manage to put a bolt through one of the hobgoblins’ eyes; the manticore dropped its cargo and wheeled back to the west bank, presumably to retrieve a replacement. The corpse landed with a splash in the center of the river.
The hobgoblin aerial regiment touched down in the shallows of the east bank. Nutmeg bellowed a challenge – “COME ON, LET’S KILL!” – and charged forward. Soldiers followed him. Gel checked the dwarf through his spyglass. Nutmeg had agreed to not partake of the signore dusto until after Sendivogius did his thing, and to his credit, there was no white dust around his nose. Not yet.
Each of the hobgoblins had a tattoo on their bare chest, a massive claw in red ink, and carried a sickle in one hand and a five-pointed steel claw in the other. Clawbearers. Forg had been onesuch, back in Khaddakar, and then the one at the barricade on the road. These were commanders of some sort, and yet here they were, deposited on the beach like sacrifices on an altar. How confident are they? wondered Gel.
Battle was joined. The Lion Guard of Barrendell led the charge, Captain Zuri right beside Nutmeg. Sickle clashed on shield. The town militia were holding their own – spears out, shouting for blood.
When the manticores joined the fray, things took a turn.
The manticores stayed high above the combatants, but rained down venomous spines from their tails, shot like bolts from bows. Many simply thudded into the sand, but a few found purchase, and the wails of pain from those struck suggested the venom was not a merciful death. Half the manticores were flying back across the river, where another regiment of Clawbearers waited.
Gel affixed his crossbow to his back and drew his swords – his plain shortsword, and the icy blade he’d taken from Caer Karnak. In a single leap, he was down from the roof of the tollhouse. Time for bladework.
He caught a Clawbearer bearing down on a young militiaman, a kid with barely a wisp of a mustache on his lip and absolute terror in his eyes. Gel parried the savage downward stroke of the sickle, turning it aside on his shortsword, and thrust the ice-blade out. He burst the claw on the Clawbearer’s chest; the hobgoblin bellowed in pain and rage, dropping his weapons to scrabble at the frost gathering on his chest. Gel pulled the sword back out and, with another cross-body swipe, cut the hobgoblin’s throat.
“Th-thanks.” The young militiaman was still terrified. Gel sheathed his sword and slapped the kid – gently.
“What’s your name?”
“T-Tim.”
“Tim. Listen. It’s kill or be killed, bud. Get your sword up. Let’s go. I got one. It’s your turn.”
“Yes sir!” Before Gel could tell him he didn’t need to be addressed as “sir,” Tim was moving down the beach, sword out, his wooden board-shield raised high.
“Nice.” Sister D had arrived. Her mace was red. “You alright? Not staying on the roof?”
“I’m more useful down here. For now. We’ll see. Had to get little Tim there out of trouble.”
“Oh shit.” Sister D pointed. Gel turned. Tim was on his knees in the sand. A Clawbearer stood over him, sickle dripping gore. The kid toppled to the ground. The hobgoblin roared with delight.
“Well that sucks.”
“He deserved better.” Sister D clutched her silver sun. “Palladius! Light be upon the sword of Tim! Let light linger in the steel!”
A glow burned up from Tim’s sword where it lay in the sand. It rose into the air of its own accord, then cut out with blinding speed at the hobgoblin. The Clawbearer leapt back, yelping a most-unimpressive cry of fear at the magic sword. Tim’s sword pursued the Clawbearer down the beach while Sister D watched with grim satisfaction.
“That rocks,” said Gel. “I think it’s what Tim would’ve wanted.”
Chapter 3 – In Which Sendivogius Throws Something
Nutmeg looked up just in time to deflect the manticore spine with his axe. The fuckers were awful, harrying everyone with their venomous dingers. And here came another wave of the Clawbearers. Gods.
At least Captain Zuri was living up to expectations. The Lion Guard fought like real soldiers – none of this pussyfooting around, no running home scared, just hard steel and grim joy. A little too grim for his taste. If he was going to have to risk his life for these people, do big hero stuff on the far side of the world, the least he could do was enjoy his work. He had tried whistling while he sparred with the Clawbearers, but then remembered, to his chagrin, that he couldn’t whistle. He’d have to learn to whistle. It couldn’t be that hard. Just one of those things.
He charged the nearest Clawbearer, forgoing the axe for the time being. The hobgoblin swung down with its stupid little ceremonial claw weapon. Nutmeg caught it and wrenched the weapon free, then turned it and raked the hobgoblin from navel to neck with the jagged claws. “Stupid turd fuck goblin ass,” he commented. “Dummy.”
Looking up, he checked the far bank again. Yup – there they were. The first rafts. It hadn’t taken the horde long; surely they’d known the river was their first obstacle, and the ferry wouldn’t be open for business. Now it was time to try out the plan. Nutmeg turned and ran north up the beach, making for Captain Anna and Sendivogius.
The wizard had emerged at last, and lingered on the backlines with Captain Anna and her oil-regiment. When he saw Nutmeg coming, his eyes went wide. Nutmeg held up a hand.
“Yeah look hey I know we uh we have met before but now is super not the time. Anna, let’s go. Oil em up.”
“You heard him!” Captain Anna Thornspur raised her sword on high. “Flasks! In the river!”
“Aren’t you-” Sendivogius had a dangerous look in his eyes, which glinted beneath his bushy eyebrows. The nebbish wizard clutched a necklace he wore, a necklace of red-gold beads. “You’re that awful, awful dwarf-”
“Maybe not. Prove it.” Before the wizard could reply, Nutmeg ran to join the oil regiment.
Twenty-odd townsfolk had volunteered for the job of oiling the Hestor river. Flasks and barrels of Harmel’s donated lamp-oil were lined in carts near the river’s edge. Nutmeg grabbed a whole barrel and threw it as hard as he could. It landed in the middle of the river, cracking open as it struck the water. Oil slicked the surface. “Throw!” he called. “Flasks in!” The oil regiment threw their flasks en masse, and soon the Hestor was a glittering rainbow of oil, drifting slowly south. Nutmeg continued hucking barrels in. The first flotilla of rafts had set out from the west bank. He’d timed it just about right. He hoped. Now it was all up to Sendivogius.
“Wizard!” Nutmeg called. “Now! Do the thing you were going to do!”
Sendivogius hurried down from his shelter. He stopped about fifteen feet from Nutmeg.
“You…urinated all over my life’s work. And…the Hakkagnumicon. The only copy in existence. Ruined. Ruined!” The wizard lifted off the necklace of red-gold beads. “You apologize to me. Apologize now.”
“Uh…no? We’re in the middle of something.”
“Apologize!” Sendivogius the Incandescent was shrieking now, throwing a real fit. “Apologize!”
“Now really isn’t the time.”
“I said apologize!”
It was the last thing Sendivogius said before the manticore spines caught him in the throat.
The poor wizard collapsed. No fewer than six manticore spines had suddenly decorated his head, neck, and shoulders. The red-gold beads spilled from his hands into the sand. Some part of Nutmeg felt guilt. Way, way down. Way down.
Nutmeg dove forward and grabbed the beads. How did they work? There was no way to know. He looked back at the river. The oil slick was in the perfect spot, drifting along the current. The rafts were in the slick now. There was no time.
He plucked a bead from the necklace and hucked it at the river.
The river exploded.
The force of the blast sent a shockwave up the beach. Sand and mud flew. Hobgoblins and soldiers staggered. The manticores wobbled in their flight; some were over the river, and screamed in that almost-human voice as the flames licked their paws and bellies. The rafts full of hobgoblins and goblins and hellhounds and wargs all went up like kindling.
Nutmeg sat down in the sand next to Sendivogius, catching his breath. He patted the dead wizard on the cheek. “Sorry,” he said, very quietly.
Chapter 4 – In Which Nutmeg Does Some Very Stupid Things
Gel and Sister D found Nutmeg sitting beside the body of Sendivogius. A sheet of flame roared on the river; the current was slow, and the burning rafts and burning oil had clogged the channel somewhat. Black smoke billowed up, obscuring the west bank almost completely.
“Hey, it worked.” Gel offered Nutmeg a hand, and the dwarf staggered to his feet.
“Woof. Yeah. I guess. Poor wizard.”
“I -” Sister D looked to each of them. “I still have the treasure from Caer Karnak. The lifegiver’s touch. The…it can bring the dead back. But only once. Ever.”
Gel looked at Nutmeg. Nutmeg looked at Gel. They both looked at Sister D.
“Let’s uh let’s wait and see if someone else needs it too, you know?” said Nutmeg.
Suddenly, a shape burst through the black smoke over the river. Aghoragoth. The red dragon, with a cohort of wyverns in its wake. The Red Ruin had come.
“Yeah we might need that thing later,” said Gel.
Aghoragoth was huge. Now, in the light of day, Gel could indeed see the scarlet scales covering its body, the great curving horns protruding from its head, the eyes, a solid burning yellow-gold color. It was almost beautiful.
Aghoragoth swooped high, a lazy arc hundreds of feet up. Then wheeled. Then dove.
In an instant, the blaze on the river was matched by a new wall of fire from the barricades on the beach. Aghoragoth strafed the defenders, breathing gouts of white flame as it went. Dozens died immediately. Dozens more screamed and writhed as the dragonfire consumed them. Militiafolk and Lion Guard alike scrambled into the water of the Hestor, but even there the water was boiling.
Nutmeg, Gel noticed, had dropped the beads in the sand and pulled out a little pouch. He dipped a finger in and snorted hard. Great. The dwarf turned to Sister D.
“The potion.”
“The potion…?”
“I want to fly.”
“Oh.” Sister D hesitated for a moment, but she must have seen something in Nutmeg’s eyes that changed her mind. Probably the drugs. She pulled from one of her many pouches a little glass vial filled with a yellow-green liquid. The liquid, Gel noticed, hovered in the middle of the vial, not touching the bottom.
“Fuck yeah.” Nutmeg grabbed the glass vial and ate it.
“Oh shit, Nutmeg, gods, that’s nasty dude, come on.”
The dwarf grinned. Blood trickled from between his teeth. His feet lifted off the sand.
“Dragon time,” said Nutmeg, and then the dwarf was zooming away through the air, bellowing something about eating Aghoragoth’s nuts.
“I don’t know if you should have given him that.”
“I’m not sure either. Come on.”
“Wait.” Gel stooped and picked up the fallen beads. Eight remained; it looked like two were missing. “Here, you want to take some too?”
“Sure. What are they?”
“The wizard made em. To start the fire. We need to bring those flying fuckers down. The soldiers can take the hobgoblins, but not the manticores. Or wyverns.”
“Or the dragon.”
“Yeah that’s Nutmeg’s department.”
Indeed, the wyverns had split off from Aghoragoth and were swooping along the beach, snatching up soldiers in their claws or jaws. Some they simply chomped down on, rending limb from limb; others they tossed from fifty feet up, letting the militiafolk fall with sickening thuds onto the sand below. The beasts were smaller and dumber than dragons, but looked an awful lot like them. Like manticores, they had barbed tails, but it looked like they couldn’t catapult their stupid stingers the way manticores could.
Gel took a moment to survey the scene. Anna was marshaling the retreat already, gathering the wounded towards the wagons. Aberthol the Druid stood with the wagons, hands raised towards the sky, chanting something. If he was going to be helpful, it wasn’t quite clear how.
The goal was plain: save as many of the defenders as they could, and keep the wagons from being attacked. Gel hefted one of the beads. A new regiment of airborne hobgoblins had just been deposited on the beach, although they were coughing and choking from having flown through the great smoke on the water. Gel tossed the bead at the new arrivals. It struck the ground just in front of them and burst into a fireball the size of a wagon. The hobgoblins shrieked and bellowed; a few perished in the blaze, while a few others rolled on the sand, yowling. Gel drew his swords and dove in. They were unready for him. One died to a quick stab; in the same motion, Gel drew the icy sword across another’s throat. He spun, plunging into the smoldering aftermath of the fire-bead. It had worked. And worked well. Although he had to be careful. Fire didn’t care who got burnt.
He had just finished with the hobgoblins when something hit him like a battering ram. He was thrown to the ground, the wind knocked out of him. And pain. Pain scorched up his back. He was bleeding. He looked up and saw the wyvern wheeling back for a second pass, its black tailtip whipping back and forth.
Gel had no time for weapons, or even beads. He rolled to one side, wriggling away as fast as he could. It was almost enough. The stinger on the wyvern’s tail caught him in the shoulder as he spun, and he screamed despite himself. The pain was like cold fire in his veins, and he felt his left arm seizing up.
Very quickly, things were going wrong.
He could hardly move. The wyvern passed over him, then wheeled about and came in for another strike. Could he get the ice-sword up? Just about. Just about. He might die, but he’d make it pay.
The world seemed to slow around him. Every beat of the wyvern’s wings seemed a thunderclap. In his peripheral, he saw a tall figure whirling a sling around her head. She loosed a small stone, a stone the color of fire.
It struck the wyvern in the side, and fire blossomed over the beast. Sister D had struck true. One wing was ruined immediately, and the wyvern screamed with a terrible cry as it crashed to the sand. Soldiers rushed forward with spears and swords and made short work of the beast.
Then Sister D was at his side. He felt warmth creep back into him – a good warmth. A healing warmth, like the sun on an early summer day. He sat up. A little spurt of black poison squirted from the closing wound on his shoulder.
“Thanks.”
“Are you alright?”
“A little bit alright. Nice shot. Let’s keep doing that.”
Sister D pointed with her mace at the hobgoblins on the beach. More continued to arrive, even with the fire and smoke. The soldiers and militia were retreating up towards the wagons, but the Clawbearers harried them all the way.
“You help them out. I’ll keep slinging at the ones in the sky.”
“And keep an eye out for Nutmeg?”
“Yeah, where is-”
Out over the river, they heard bellowing. From out of the smoke came Aghoragoth. The dragon plunged straight for a small figure in the air. Gel could just make out Nutmeg’s voice saying something extremely offensive things about dragons, their mothers, and what sort of things they got up to with their mothers. The word “anus” was thrown about pretty freely.
“That’s not smart.”
“I’ll keep an eye on him,” said Sister D. “Help them. We’re getting out of here.”
Chapter 5 – In Which They Get Out Of Here
“-AND WHEN YOU’RE DONE, YOU LICK EACH OTHER CLEAN,” Nutmeg finished. He was pretty proud of that one. He had really pissed Aghoragoth off.
The dragon approached very rapidly, jaws wide, flames tickling its cheeks. Nutmeg waited. He waited. He waited for just the right moment and then whoosh he flew (he was flying! That was awesome!) around Aghoragoth’s open mouth and grabbed the dragon by the horns and straddled the base of Aghoragoth’s spine and then, for the second time in his life, he was riding a dragon.
He fucked around with Aghoragoth’s horns. The gauntlets he’d taken from Caer Karnak had made him stronger, even stronger than he thought possible, and the signore dusto helped quite a lot as well. He jerked the dragon’s head from one side to the other. Aghoragoth’s flight became clumsy, awkward, halting. The dragon was cursing in some tongue – probably Dragonsprakk, but Nutmeg only knew the gutter stuff kobolds spoke. Arrows from the soldiers of Tanner’s Crossing peppered the armored belly of the beast; most fell harmlessly away, but a few found purchase beneath its plated scales, and the dragon’s curses grew more frantic and angry. Nutmeg held onto a horn with one hand; with his other, he raised the battleaxe of Dolgatha and brought it down again and again and again on the scarlet scales of Aghoragoth the Red Ruin.
The dragon swooped back into the cloud of smoke, and Nutmeg had to shut his eyes. The smoke was hot, and it poured into his throat, his nose, his mouth. He spluttered and coughed. He was in a black hell, and found that he was suddenly quite helpless, hanging on for dear life as the dragon did its best to give him the worst piggyback ride in history.
There came one moment, one single moment, where it felt like the battle-fervor and the drugs and the smoke all faded away, and Nutmeg could reflect clearly. Here he was, on the far side of the world, riding a red dragon because he had volunteered to save some helpless villagers from a massive horde of apocalypse-cult hobgoblins. He could have been back in Lone Tower drinking enormous amounts of liquor and eating, like, roast hams and various smoked meats and cheeses. But no. He was here. He was, himself, the smoked meat. And cheese.
Then the world returned to him. He looped his axe-arm around Aghoragoth’s horn and fumbled with his free hand in his pocket. He had it somewhere. The other bead he’d taken from the wizard’s necklace. There, there it was. A miracle it hadn’t popped yet. Or maybe it had to be thrown with abundant intentionality.
He intended to find out.
He pulled with all his might, his forearm looped around the dragon’s horn, yanking the beast’s head back. His muscles bulged; he was fighting an ancient worm of incredible strength and power, and doing so with one hand. Then, at just the moment when the dragon’s neck bent back – it screamed and bellowed but it was Nutmeg’s dragon now – he detached. Let his legs go loose from the beast. And as he flew up, he threw the bead down into Aghoragoth’s mouth.
The blast sent him careening away through the sky. The red dragon at first seemed none the worse for wear. Of course. Of course. It breathed fire, this one. Why would fire hurt it? And yet – there was something different about its cries of anger. The articulate Dragonsprakk had become slurred, mottled with pain and incapacity.
When Aghoragoth spat out its own ruined tongue, a hunk of meat blasted loose from its mouth by the little fire-bead, Nutmeg grinned.
“YEAH IT DOESN’T FEEL GREAT DOES IT?” Blood sprayed from his mouth. He’d have to get Sister D to look at that.
Aghoragoth dove for him.
He writhed out of the way and back into the wall of smoke. Zipping down, zooming towards the river, where the flames were hottest. He popped out the west side of the smoke, and his heart almost stopped. The horde looked endless from up here. Giants. Trolls. Ogres. Super-goblins. Hobgoblins. Hellhounds. Wargs. Goblins. Wyverns and manticores. And other things, shambling things and shrieking things, beasts and monsters, some chained, some free, all hungry, all ready to cross. The next wave of rafts had hit the water.
It was time to go.
Nutmeg plunged back through the smoke. Aghoragoth seemed to have lost him. He stayed close to the water, passing over the ruined bodies of hobgoblins, the smoking and shattered remains of the first rafts, the barrels of still-burning oil. The mess he’d made of the Hestor river.
He landed at last near the wagons. Burning corpses of wyverns and manticores littered the beach, but more continued to pour out of the sky. Sister D and Gel were waiting at the wagons, ushering the last of the soldiers up off the beachhead.
“Time to go,” said Nutmeg. Except it came out as “imma o.”
“You’re a mess,” said Dondalla.
“Oo ud ee e udda ai.” You should see the other guy.
“Yeah, I bet.”
“Wyverns!” Gel called. The elf looked like absolute dogshit. “They’re coming!”
“No!” replied a voice from the vanguard. “Not while the Thirteen Circles of Thirteen keep our long watch over these lands! Hey-a! Ho!”
Aberthol the druid stood at the head of the column, his hair wild around him. The wind whipped up. Black clouds roiled overhead. The closest wyvern was suddenly impaled by a bolt of white lightning; it screeched and crashed down. “A-ho!” Aberthol cried out again, making a gesture, and a manticore plunged down, smoking from the lightning strike.
“You could do that all along?” asked Gel.
“No!” replied Aberthol. “Just for a short while. The will of the earth does not obey my beck and call – it only plays along for a while. Just enough to get us out of here!”
Nutmeg could still fly, so he flew. The wagons trundled out of Tanner’s Crossing, defended by the lightning wall. The wounded groaned. The Lion Guard rode escort, and Captain Zuri’s face was smeared with soot and blood. Anna Thornspur rode alongside the front wagon. Nutmeg only saw her look back once. Gel and Sister D rode at the back, facing the town. Fires broke out. The horde had reached the eastern shore, and the looting and burning had begun.
The Red Hand had come to the Hestor Vale.
Chapter 6 – In the Wastelands
Orlai hummed a few bars. She was getting closer, she was sure of it. The tune, the melody had emerged at last on the journey south, and even here in this strange, musty tomb she could still find the time to finesse her opera’s third act. Her quarters here were cramped and windowless, and smelled of old decay and rot. Her host had little interest in hospitality. He had little interest in keeping her alive at all, but then he had no choice in the matter. Orlai grinned as she tested her melody on the harp-strings. Lazar had planned well. Daghda’s way was prepared.
Someone knocked on the door. “Enter,” she called, from her seat at the writing-desk, harp braced on her knee.
It was one of the monks, a Doom Drummer, with Daghda’s red hand imprinted on his sackcloth robe. Wrapped around the hobgoblin’s waist was his vek’nakht, the six-foot length of chain wielded by all Doom Drummers; the heavy spiked head clanked against the coiled chain as he bowed deeply.
“Wyrmlord Orlai. A thousand pardons for interrupting your work.”
“Get on with it.” Orlai shot a meaningful glance at her whip, which hung on a hook by the desk. Even at rest, little tingles and jolts of electricity danced along the leather whip. The Doom Drummer took her meaning.
“The Mar- our host is seeking another audience with you. He wishes for your input on his latest versions.”
“Does he think I come at his beck and call like a cur? Tell him I will see him. In an hour. Maybe two.”
“My lady…”
Orlai plucked a chord and hissed a word of arcane command. The Doom Drummer flinched as if struck, twitching as the pain seared through him. An ordinary hobgoblin might have been felled by such a spell, but not the Doom Drummers. Orlai deserved better than ordinary guards. The monk turned and fled, closing the door behind him.
She sighed. It wasn’t right to lash out at the good soldiers of the Hand. Nobody wanted to be here. And yet Lazar had made it clear to Orlai: this was key. Instrumental to victory. Not just to victory: to what came after victory.
As if the mere thought of him could summon him forth, her seeing-stone flashed red. She set down her harp and took up the crystal in one hand. “High Lord?”
“Orlai.” His face appeared in the seeing stone: a hobgoblin like her, but covered in the red scales he had earned. Monstrous, twisted…and handsome, and enthralling. “News. Rath is dead. Awrnwn has crossed the river. Selvyth’s work continues apace in the north.”
“Rath – dead?” She had always rather liked Rath. So stubbornly devoted to the wizardly arts. And he had painted that lovely map of the Vale as well.
“Mazzirandus, too,” said Lazar. “Losses are inevitable. But the work proceeds. And every drop of blood shed in Daghda’s name is water on the wheel of history. The tide grows stronger, Orlai. Tell me of your work.”
“The Marrowmonger serves his purpose. Recalcitrant as he may be. The Drinkers of Marrow will be ready to fight.”
“Good. You play your role so well, dear Orlai.” His smile was terrible. “Soon we will be reunited. In the meantime – I’ve sent you a gift. A protector. The doorway is opening, bit by bit, and our power grows by the day. Hail Daghda! Hail the Unmaker!”
“Hail the Unmaker,” said Orlai, and the seeing-stone winked out.
She sat back. Breathed a long sigh. Rath and Mazzy, gone just like that. Who else? The other dragons remained – Agharagoth, Rougarrax, Tzanikthaross – and of course Awrnwn and Selvyth had their roles to play. But Lazar had promised a total conquest of the Vale. A flood. The horde spilling out over the lands of the Vale, burning and killing in Daghda’s name to bring about the great Day.
But what if he was wrong?
Rath had a cushy job in the keep, and he had died. Mazzirandus was just stationed at a bridge, and he died. Who else?
Would she, too, face death before seeing Daghda’s glory realized?
Another knock at the door. She stood, then, and slung her whip at her belt. When she opened the door, the Doom Drummer on the other side cringed back.
“My lady – a thousand thousand pardons – you need to see this. Something’s arrived.”
“A gift from the High Lord,” confirmed Orlai. “Lead me.”
The monk scuttled before her, leading her through the Marrowmonger’s mouldering halls, down the winding staircase, out the mouth of the stone lion, and there –
“By the Unmaker,” she swore.
A great beast lay coiled in the dusty wastes. A pair of purplish, shadowy wings emerged from its back, fluttering like sails in the wind. Like a serpent it appeared, and then again not so, as she took note of the six legs sprouting from either side of the creature, great tree-trunk appendages, each ending in a vicious claw. Its head was hard to behold: a mass of shadow and scale, obscured from the light somehow. Horns jutted out from the mass, and tentacles, and at least three mouths she could see. And within the depths of the shadowy face, a pair of eyes, glowing with deep purple light, cold and strange.
“Orlai. Storm-Caller.” The voice echoed in her mind, so loud she nearly fell to her knees. “I have come to lead the Marrowmonger’s pets. By Daghda we shall succeed. By Daghda we shall Unmake.”
“What are you? Who are you?”
“Ak-Nehir,” the voice hissed. “One of Daghda’s Chosen. Here to hasten the day long-awaited.”
Orlai knew she should feel reassured. Should feel grateful to Lazar for the gift, the companion. And yet this thing only filled her with revulsion. Was this what the future held for her? Was this what victory looked like?
There in the wasteland, the Wyrmlord of the south began to hear the faint strains of doubt.
The Chaotic Neutral Chronicles 