by Brad C Baker
Turning finally back to Erik, Crallick concluded his loose battle plan. “You take everyone else, really quietly, and get as close as you can. When things go wrong, you get as close as you can to the enemy. Put pressure hard on them. Make as much noise as you can. Keep them from hurting anyone else. Got it?”
“When things go wrong?” Erik looked to clarify.
“Oh, I promise you, they will,” Crallick groaned. “Just get on it,” he added when presented with Erik’s disapproving look.
Crallick hoisted himself up a tree. It was one of the strange baobab trees with the massive trunks. The foliage at the top provided an excellent sniping blind. Calling his bow to his hand, he pulled an arrow from his quiver. He nocked it and sighted down its length. He panned back and forth until he located the target he wanted to drop first. Finding it, he inhaled, ready to let fly with his shot. Then things went wrong.
Glip-Glip obviously had made it to a position he liked, because the guard to the south slapped his cheek as if stung by a wasp. He then convulsed into a seizure, flopping to the ground. This had the undesired effect of setting the children tied to his fence into screaming wails of hysterics.
The northern guard took that moment to look over his shoulder to the south. The quarrel took him in the back of his skull. This sent those children into wails of terror.
The eruption of noise caused his skirmish line to charge forwards towards the center of town, ignoring their own safety. The distant wildlife and birds quieted in the sudden din of the ill-executed fight. Crallick’s shot missed wide of the target as he had bolted to the side towards the convulsing man to the south. At the sound of the arrow striking the wood of the hut behind him, he started, glanced back at the vibrating arrow, and then looked into the forest from where it came.
The three frontrunners of Crallick’s skirmish line met with immediate disaster. Armon tripped over a cord stretched tight between two huts. He fell flat on his face. Other than a bruised ego, he was unharmed. The real damage was a spray of lantern oil that fountained out of a suspended cask above the bound townswomen. Crallick cringed in mortified terror with what happened next.
“Ser Oakenshield!” called out a voice from the city. “I know you’re out there! I recognize a fellow knight-ranger, just like me!”
Unable to contain his indignation, and against his better judgement, Crallick yelled back. “Bugger you! We’re nothing alike! I would never serve Chessintra as you! I serve only Jyslin and the Queen!”
“You sure about that?! The only difference that I see is that I’m open about who I send to Chessintra! I’m also younger, faster, and not so vulgar as to take trophies from my kills!” Crallick was scanning the village to try to find the source of the voice, as he was sure the other ranger was doing to the forest. Unless… No! Of course not! The ranger would be trying to echo his voice off of a hut. That meant he was in the forest too.
“No. I don’t have to tell you that any more violence will result in the death of the townsfolk. Chessintra will have your daughter either way!” the gob-buggered ass continued. “We can have a nice sit down and no one else has to get hurt. Just the sacrifices. Besides old man, you can barely draw the string on your bow. Just admit it, you’re too old for this shite.”
Crallick realized he could see him. He narrowed his search at the thought, also he simplified his body movements. Damn, he still couldn’t find the guy.
Glip-Glip, meanwhile, sent another guard into seizing convulsions, leading to a noisy death heralded by six screaming children.
That simple turn set off a powder keg of actions that culminated into a six-second hell that ended the entire altercation for the village.
First, the elven ranger said, “Too bad.” Then he fired a flaming arrow into the village square. This marked him as two trees over from Crallick. As he drew back his bowstring to quickly load and direct his next shot at Crallick, Crallick shifted his aim and fired at him. The arrow was devastating at ranges of over two hundred yards. He was merely twenty yards away. The arrow holed him through his torso, spinning him to the right, and knocking him clear out of the tree. The arrow didn’t kill the ranger, but Crallick was pretty sure the sickening crunch of the guy’s neck finished the job for him at the base of the tree.
Jarrod fired his pistol, along with Bargress’s pair. The trio of shots rang out into the tied form of a child, the chest of the guard, and the trunk-fashioned hut behind them. Both the guard and child jerked and went still.
Jarrod took a crossbow bolt to the abdomen. He doubled over in pain, vomited blood, and fell. That shot had come from the wounded man who had been left with the crossbow. He had made his last shot count. Menshirre made sure it was his last shot with a bolt of his own.
Erik’s shot went low, blasting the skull of a captured child into shrapnel that did little to bother the man cowering behind the other five children.
The man, aiming a return shot at Erik, never saw the Bull froggle’s swift leap and spear pointed descent, not even when the spear entered the top of his skull, driving through his brain, rupturing the palate, diving through the man’s throat, and into his chest cavity to cause a massive eruption of blood to come frothing forth. The man’s sagging to his knees prevented further damage. This was lucky for Hullaboo. Hullaboo knew it was very hard to pull a spear tip from a man’s pelvic girdle once it got snagged in those bones.
Izzy cornered the last guard, who shielded himself with a child of no more than six years. The guard smiled, “Now I know you Bannathyr types! You won’t risk a child. Right! Let’s talk.”
Izzy simply said, “You killed my brother.” Then he drove both of his cutlasses through the man’s chest; right through his makeshift shield.
The guard garbled out something about “You beast.”
Izzy’s cold eyes never left the dying man’s. “You put me in the position, you coward.” Then he yelled, “Clear!”
By the time Gregor and Kittalae reached the pyre, eight of the twenty women were alight, screaming endlessly as their skin sizzled and popped. The stench of cooking and burning pork was rich in the air. The two of them did their best to try to pull free those women that they could. By the time Crallick had climbed down rather shakily from the tree, the tiny ant bites bothering him more than the two healing ribs, the women were either safe or dead.
Before anyone could stop her, a woman, seeing her child dead on a rail, dived back into the bonfire consumed with grief. She was soon consumed by the fire.
Crallick sighed heavily. The wails of those immolated had died off. The wails of those grieving were rising up. Erik came over to him.
“Hey, Crallick. We got through that really well, don’t you think?” Erik asked.
“Tell that to the nine women and three children. And then tell that to the fathers and husbands of those dead,” Crallick glumly answered.
“I meant our forces,” Erik quietly said. “Look pal, I know you try, but you can’t save them all.” He tried vainly to reassure Crallick.
“Once, I could have.” Crallick stretched. He listened to his vertebrae crack into place. “Damn it, Erik, I missed a young pup of a Bannathyr knight-ranger just twenty yards away. Ten years ago, he would never have even been alive that close to me unless I had wanted him that way.” Crallick’s voice was torn somewhere between grief, desperation and frustration.
Bemused, Erik gave a sidelong glance at the crumpled form at the base of the tree. “No offence Cral, but you’re being a little hard on yourself. He’s dead. You’re not. We’re still going to save your daughter. Also, we saved most of the children and women of this village as a bonus.”
“He’s right, master,” Kittalae said, coming up to them. “Sorry, I mean Crallick.”
Snorting back a laugh, Crallick said, “Fine, and don’t worry, I’m not upset at you. Get everyone over here. Have them strip whatever gear we can. We have to quickly find out just where they’ve gone, and how far we still have to go.”
The men of the village were
found tied up in two of the huts. They were in pretty bad shape. Several of them were beaten and some bore nasty cuts. All of them were malnourished and dehydrated. When they were let out the men, all of whom were under four feet in height, rushed to find women, children, or both. Some succumbed to sobbing and wailing. Others chattered amongst themselves, presumably about Crallick’s men. They were all nut-brown, and lean. There was a fierce pride in their eyes. They clearly didn’t like what had just befallen their village.
Crallick and his team were scrawling in the sand their rough approximation of the surrounding lands. They were also divvying up the spoils of the dead. Then Izzy nudged Hullaboo and pointed.
Tentatively approaching the group was a cluster of six women, trailed by peering and quietly chattering children. The men were keeping a focused gaze on them with strange weapons at the ready. Even though they seemed armed and ready to defend themselves as best they could, they were content to let these brave volunteers go forth in some gesture of peace.
Erik whispered to Crallick’s right ear, “What are they anyways? They’re too thin for dwarves and they’re half the size of a human. They are not ugly enough to be Boggles. Fairies?”
“No. Now shut up.” Crallick stepped forward, aware of his team tightening hands on weapons, and of Kittalae gently coming up behind him. He lowered himself onto one protesting knee. He opened his hands, palms up, and spread them away from his body. He smiled without showing any teeth. Although for the life of him, he couldn’t remember how to make the rest of his face not seem hard.
One of the women was carrying a large, clay vessel that sloshed with a rich brown liquid in it. The liquid steamed and gave off an earthy, heady aroma. Crallick groaned inwardly, knowing what was likely to be expected to come next. Sure enough, one of the other women was carrying a bunch of clay cups. A different woman took a cup from the cup-bearer, and while the cup-bearer handed out the cups to Crallick’s team, she dipped hers into the liquid, then drank deep of it. This display was to prove to Crallick the safety of the beverage. All it truly proved to his paranoid mind was that she was willing to die for the good of her tribe. Wait, village. It was a bad assumption to think that these folks were tribal. Crallick watched for any telltale signs of distress. Then after long moments, he helped himself. The rich liquid was warm and rejuvenating. Everything seemed to come into clearer focus. It was good, though it had a bitter taste to it. The rest of the group were murmuring to themselves about their own experiences of the beverage. The consensus seemed that it needed something to sweeten it. Other than that, it was amazing.
Kittalae had been deeply involved with one of the local women, and soon came over with a bit of a sheepish grin on her face.
“What is it?” Crallick growled, hiding his rum flask. He drank some more of the brown liquid, now enriched with some rum. Oooh, yeah. Much better.
“Well,” Kittalae giggled, “I’ve been getting the hang of their speech. This drink is coffee. It comes from these.” She held up a branch with some red berries on it. “They pick them, then dry them in the sun, then prepare them like tea.”
“Great.” Crallick looked hard at her. ”I care, why?”
“Because for saving their village, the elder has decreed you are entitled to five hundred of those coffee plants. Also, three wives are yours for the taking.” It was impossible for him to tell if she was blushing under the red pigmentation of her demonic skin. But she couldn’t hide her amused smile.
“No.”
“You don’t want to insult them,” she cautioned.
“No.”
“You could say it’s your custom to only accept one,” she advised.
“No.”
“You could say you’ll pick after you return from the temple,” she offered.
Crallick gave a low guttural growl in concession.
“The temple is only half a day’s hike up the slope from here. The path is easy,” she said. “They were very helpful once I said you’d be honoured to take a wife with you.”
Glaring at his slave, one violation already made of his ethics and vows in order to save his daughter, Crallick resigned himself to have to suffer at least another before this trial was over. Swallowing his pride and his rage, he said first to Kittalae, “Well then, I suppose you did well getting us that information.” Then to all, he cried out, “All right everyone! Get the lead out of your balls! Let’s go get those girls back!”
With that, they gathered up their gear and swiftly began moving up the path that led to the distant looming ziggurat.
Chapter Fourteen
“Crallick's Cradle Knights stormed the Amarallan flanks
The hamlet turned to ash and they wept with blood
Crallick and his nine finest sent the drake their thanks.
Spears and arrows struck home. Drake’s fire began to flood.”
Verse 15: Ballad of Ser Crallick Carnage-born
The full heat of the day was upon them when they left the village to ascend the slope to the mountain temple. Not even the biting flies bothered to buzz noisomely in the heat. They followed a path of heavy flagstones that was choked over with vines and leaves. Mosses also deadened the sounds of their footfalls.
There were telltale signs of a recent passing: indentations in the moss; scuffed bark on vines; occasional broken twigs among the floor litter. All were clues to some group of not-too-concerned travellers coming this way.
Crallick noted with a wry smile a small thread of yellow fabric from Amalae’s skirt, placed notably higher than her waist. His daughter was alive. She had to have placed it there to be easily spotted.
Crallick led his now slightly better-equipped band through the rainforest. He paced them by a good ten yards. He had instructed them to keep each other in line of sight, but easily several yards apart. He had explained that they were tracking a mage who could easily destroy a ten yard radius with one strike of a battlefield geared spell. That sobering thought quelled any misgivings the band may have had with Crallick’s expertise. He had also explained with his leading so far forward of the group, should anything horrible happen to him, they would have time to react and either avenge him or save themselves.
Birds called in different notes and timbres from high in the canopy. Strange little animals likewise chattered and screamed in the distant branches. This backdrop of noise had cropped up as the sun fell steadily towards the west. The mid-afternoon gloom of the canopy shade did little to relieve the heat. Just enough for the bugs to begin chirping, biting and buzzing again.
The forest’s choir abruptly stopped its harmony. Crallick stiffened in surprise at the subtle change in his environment. He crouched down and glanced around nervously. As a hunter, he knew what this meant for the wildlife of his homeland. He guessed, against hopes, that it was the same for the wildlife around here. Back in Bannathyr it usually meant the presence of a predator. Anything from a wolf, up to a marauding wyvern. As for what it could mean here – who knew?
The sudden deep thrumming of wingbeats sent an echo of a memory running to him from his past. The steady, rhythmic tempo and the force of the wind change coming from those wings could mean only one thing.
Dragon!
The solitary word chilled him to the bone in ways that no other foe had ever sent fear running through him. Ironic that the servants of fire could chill someone with fright. Crallick had just enough time to yell “Dragon!” and drop to the ground. Then the approaching wings were overhead and then past. The suction of the great passing wyrm caused the trees to sway and groan and creak like so many tall blades of grass moving in a spring breeze. Beams of sunlight pierced the under canopy of the rainforest. This caused a strobing effect that sent Crallick’s band running to and fro, trying to avoid being caught in the open. Some trees with boles as large around as small huts cracked in protest of the torque set upon them from the rushing gale of the passing dragon.
Crallick took a quick stock of those hiding amongst the trees with him. There was Erik, Gregor,
and Armon, all who hailed from Amaral, a nation who employed dragons in their elite airborne cavalry. They would be acclimatized to the presence of the massive predators, though not one of this size. Crallick guessed they wouldn’t freeze up.
Menshirre and Bargress were both lizardmen, so their kinship with reptiles should keep them able.
Hullaboo and Glip-Glip were unknowns to him. As was Izzy. In fact, Izzy’s unstable emotional condition was of great concern, though Crallick hadn’t dwelt upon it. Up until now, if Izzy wanted to get himself killed while avenging himself upon as many of his brother’s killers as he could, that was his problem. But now, with the complication of the dragon… to say it changed the field a bit was an understatement.
Kittalae’s familiarity with elemental magic was hopeful. She shouldn’t be too shocked by the elemental fire beast. Her demonic heritage should likewise give her an ability to handle supernatural encounters with a certain coolness and acceptance. These were all best-case scenarios.
In short, Crallick mused as he called his bow to his hand, they were buggered.
Wordlessly, Crallick raised his bow skyward. That great beast had been hunting. For what, Crallick had a sinister idea. Nevertheless, the wyrm should likely pass again as it searched for its prey. Crallick’s peripheral vision caught the others pulling ranged weapons from their belts, sashes, and pouches. This day was about to get very ugly, very swiftly.
Crallick thought back to the last time he had fought a dragon. The leather cloak that laid across his shoulders from the wing of that beast gave him some small comfort. Of course, he had dealt with that much smaller dragon with a crack team of Bannathyrran knight-rangers. Two of those men never saw the end of the battle. Now, almost a decade and a half later, here he was, older, slower, and with untrained men, facing a dragon easily twice the size. The maelstrom inducing creature passed overhead again. The great wyrm was readily over one hundred and twenty feet in length by Crallick’s guess. The searching pattern meant that it had picked up the scent of prey nearby.
