"Jes?" Merfee began uncertainly.
"No time," Jester blurted while tossing Merfee a tow sack. "Open it," he directed, even as he himself opened the other.
Merfee loosened the drawstring and pulled at the opening to reveal a small child. Then he glanced at the content of Jester's sack, which was similar.
"Take them to safety," he said quickly while turning back toward the south.
As he did so, Merfee caught a glimpse of something alarming, but before he could say anything, Jester had already bolted back in the direction he had just come. A moment later, he was gone, leaving Merfee to look back down at the bright red droplets, now soaking the grass where his friend had been standing.
***
Delphi lay perfectly motionless, lowering the rhythms of both blood and breath. So far, no one had even thought to check on her. This could not last for much longer, and once she was discovered playing dead, she would no doubt find herself expiring in earnest.
Baron Heartrot strode briskly past without taking notice of her. For some reason, he was heading south, toward the river.
The key to the Druid's plan was obviously based on what her old Master would have called a Chaos Gambit. A bold and admirable ploy, if it worked. If it did not work, she would die quickly, as her now previous comrades would lack the time to torture her to their full satisfaction.
Death itself presented no aversion. Death was only that and nothing more. It simply meant a quicker admission to Limbo. She would of course prefer to escape, but were she to die under these circumstances, then that too would be a victory of sorts.
Then she heard him. With her ear to the ground, the rumble of his speed was unmistakable. It was like a stampede of one. Were the situation not so serious, it would have been almost comical.
She was relieved that he had not betrayed her. If he had, she would never have been able to make good on her threat. It was not so much that she would have wanted vengeance. After all, none of this dilemma would have come to pass, had her own people not instigated it. It was simply that she had placed the threat within their bargain. If he had betrayed her and she failed to carry it out, then it would become an empty threat, and Rogues do not make empty threats.
She could also tell that his speed was decreasing. The spell was dropping and she had no idea what he had in mind from this point forward. True, the children were safe. She knew this had been his primary objective, but what now? With his speed spell gone, they would both be surrounded. If his plan was to transport out, they would surely be cut down before the portal even formed. Whatever it was he had in mind either involved some element as of yet not known to her, or…
She recalled what he had said only moments before their diversion. My name is not Druid. It's Jester. The term Jester had several meanings in the Homidris language. It could mean Trickster. On the other hand, it could also mean, Fool. She hoped it was not the latter.
***
Running back to the center of his captor's lair was the last thing they could have expected. This was apparent by the collective expression on their faces as he streaked into their encampment. To Jester, they appeared much the same as he had left them.
As he reached Delphi's feigned corpse, he felt the spell finally slip completely away. He felt this just as surely as he had felt the impact to his lower back while escaping the Dark-elf parameter. Losing the speed was bad, but this was actually more than he could deal with. It was simply more than he could afford to acknowledge. Perhaps Warriors and their like draw upon some mysterious fortification: some instinct or reinforcement enabling them to deal with such things. The best he could hope for was to avoid its reality long enough to finish the business at hand, for stunned or not, they were closing quickly.
And yet there would come three further occasions in which they would falter. The first was when Delphi suddenly jumped up from the dead to backstab a Warrior who was about to cleave Jester in two pieces with a broad-axe. Oddly enough, her own reaction to what would surely be viewed as a most dishonorable betrayal was more like a weight lifting from her. It felt right somehow, as if Surripere himself had just praised her course.
The second was when Jester chose that moment to sing what sounded like a child's nursery rhyme. "The dell is full of Ne'er-do-wells… Let's send em all to Ogre Hell…" Here, Jester paused, hoping he was not asking too much of a good friend who must be frightened out of what few wits he had in the first place.
Upon hearing him sing, Delphi herself took pause. To her great dismay, the definition of his name was abruptly leaning far too nigh the lesser of desired characterizations. That is, until the remainder of the rhyme was completed. The reason for this was simply because it was not the Druid who sang, but rather a voice from above.
All eyes turned upward. The voice was somehow full of thunder, and yet childlike at the same time. "Smash em… Smash em… All fall down!" As if to punctuate the song's end, something massive crashed through the tree limbs above, coming down like a boulder, and landing with an impact that shook the very ground beneath their feet.
Now before them, and standing where he had landed, which was right next to Jester and on top of a now crushed Dark-elf who had been about to crack open Jester's skull with a morning star, was an Ogre of truly unusual mass.
As a general rule, Ogres are more likely to eat meat than anything else. They're even less likely to exercise. Growing up among Tarots had afforded him a well balanced diet and plenty of hard work, the results of which was made clearly evident in the expressions of all the Dark-elves as they faltered for yet a third time.
"Hi ya, Huey!"
"Hi ya, Jester," Huey drawled.
"Allow me to introduce my new friend, Delphi."
***
Borin both heard and felt the impact of something like a tree crashing to the ground. He centered on this as he charged, and though unaware of it, he was followed closely by his entire squad, which in turn prompted the entire Regiment to storm forth.
He was the son of Captain Reginald Krue. The soldiers with whom he served, many being of an even higher rank, had come to look up to him for that very reason. If Borin Krue had call to charge, then there would be no doubting such judgment. They followed his lead as if it were the Captain's own command.
***
Delphi had killed another. This had been a Rogue of lesser rank who had actually made the mistake of attempting to backstab her. Then, as she withdrew her blade from his neck, she was attacked by the one Dark-elf she had hoped to avoid.
Crimsin reached out and gently touched her shoulder as a dark aura pulsed through the Dis'Errant's hand and into Delphi, who at first stiffened, and then dropped limply to the ground.
One should note that it is really of no particular import as to where one is struck by an Ogre, as was evident when Huey back-handed Crimsin across the face, thereby sending him to sprawl through the air some fifteen meters, to where his body connected with a rather unforgiving tree trunk. He too, dropped limply to the ground.
***
Jester ducked as a Dark-elf's sword prepared to separate his body from his head. He avoided the blade, but crouching as he did was not without consequence. A crippling pain exploded throughout his lower back, and then down his legs. Ignoring the arrow was no longer an option. He dropped to one knee as the world swam out of focus, and then darkened.
The Dark-elf swung at Jester again, but as his blade came down, Huey caught the swordsman's arm and turned, tossing both sword and wielder over his head to land near the same spot where the Dis'Errant had landed. When Huey looked back, Jester had dropped face down, and now lay just as unconscious as Delphi.
He lifted Delphi from the ground and draped her over his left shoulder. He was about to drape Jester over his right shoulder, and then simply run away. Before he could reach his little Druid friend, he found himself being surrounded by a large number of Dark-elves. He turned to discover them all about him, slowly closing the circle they were yet forming as more of their number joined t
he effort.
Fear seized him as he realized he now stood alone. They's lookin real mad at me! Youse better wake up now, Jester! he thought desperately, as if to will his friend to consciousness. Please?
***
The Baron had maneuvered to a higher vantage atop a small hill to the south. He could see the incoming Arbitos soldiers. He could even make out the distinctive form of the man in front who led the charge as though he were invincible.
Only Krue would be so bold, he thought, absently tracing his scar from chin to collar while recalling a different battle, from a different era. With the figure of his old adversary so close, it was suddenly difficult to consider anything other than the demise of one whom he had wanted dead for so long.
Still, his men would all be dead soon. There would be no one left to report their findings. Reluctantly, he withdrew the tiny vial he had found among the Gnoll Chieftain's possessions. There had only been the one gate potion, and he had hoped he would not need it.
Another time then, my dear Captain.
***
Those in the circle now stared in bewilderment as it became obvious that the behemoth was not quite the threat they first thought. He had led them south for almost thirty paces before they closed in with spears and halberds, effectively blocking further retreat. Then, when he piddled down his own legs, they began to laugh.
"Be done with him!" one of them shouted while advancing with a long leaf spear.
Huey froze with panic. He couldn't make his legs move. His lower lip began to tremble as he was unable to even look away.
In one moment, the spears tip hovered inches from his face. In the next, a shadow passed quickly over several of their heads to land within the circle.
Huey's self-appointed executioner dropped his spear as he was suddenly faced with other concerns. He tried to struggle, but the beast was too strong, too fast. It was over quickly.
Blood and gore dripped from Digger's muzzle as he released what remained of the Dark-elf's throat.
Forgetting the infantile Ogre, the remaining Dark-elves closed on the wolf, whose snarl bore fangs now painted in their own comrade's blood.
Huey knew nothing of wolf packs. All he saw when he looked at Digger was another member of his family. In this case, family in trouble. His fear fell away to be replaced with something new, and though he had never been formally trained in combat, what he felt now would have been easily recognized by any veteran Warrior. It was battle rage: the sort of fury only Berserkers knew. It quickly enveloped him as a chaotic tempest, and for the first time in his life, Huey the Tarot issued the shattering roar of a true Ogre.
***
A Dark-elf Warrior had seen the Druid fall from a distance. From just over the hill to his left, he could hear the jeers of those comrades who were yet busy dealing with the cowardly Ogre. He quickly ran to the Druid's unconscious body and raised his sword to finish the job, but paused at the reverberation of a most dreadful bellowing. He had heard the battle cry of Ogres before while serving under several integrated Quests between allied factions. This however, was no allied battle cry. It was less controlled, as if issued by something feral and horrifying.
He came back to his target quickly, swinging sharply downward to finish the task at hand. Then he could return to the others before the Ogre got out of hand.
The sharp chop had buried several inches of his weapon in the grass and earth, but not the Druid's head. How could he have missed? And yet his target lay several inches beyond the blade's reach. In looking up, he was met by the menacing eyes of yet another Half-elf, though this one was no Druid.
The Warrior dropped the Druid's leg back to the flattened grass, a toothy grin forming on his face. Behind him, other soldiers from Arbitos were charging in.
Chapter Eleven-Chaos Gambit, Part Two: Druid's End
In truth, it had not been a proper battle. Between Huey, Digger, Borin, and the other soldiers, Dark-elf numbers had dwindled quickly. An entire Regiment versus a handful of cornered Dark-elves in broad daylight presented no great challenge. Then again, it was not as if Arbitos had shown up wholly uninvited.
There were a few Arbitos casualties, as there almost always were in such skirmishes, though far less than expected. In the end, only a few of the invaders were given the chance to surrender. The reactions of some had been to charge against the wall of soldiers to die. Those remaining had attempted to flee, only to be cut down in showers of arrows.
***
As he retrieved his personal arrows, easily discernible by the family crest on each shaft, his bearing and expression was perhaps somewhat less than a model of perfect humility. The glances of disdain proffered by his fellow Archers were yet another reflection of Merfee's own gloating grin while intentionally holding up each arrow pulled from an enemy's body to insure that his peers could clearly see the difference between his armful of ammunition versus their embarrassingly tiny piles. Of course, his friendly taunting came to a halt when he tripped over a corpse while endeavoring to display said grin, thus scattering said pile and fortunately diffusing their growing of aggravation.
***
At first, Huey was aware of nothing but the rage. As he slowly awoke to his surroundings, he could see there were no more of the blue-skinned Elves, save the one Jester had called friend. She was yet draped about his neck.
He surveyed the area about him. The ground was loosely strewn with the dead of all those who had failed to escape his insanity. Their number was difficult to discern, as a great deal of what could be seen were no more than body parts: a head, an arm, a torso. It might have been easier had a blade been used. As it was, the remains were naught but a great mass of ripped sinew and broken splinters of bones, jutting at various angles. It was as if one large blue-skinned beast had exploded.
Still holding what remained of a femur, Huey looked down at the blood covering his body from head to foot, and then returned his addled attention to the leg bone in his hand. What an odd thing it was. And why should he be holding it? Then he recalled. He had torn a leg from the first of them to fall within his grasp, and then used it as a crude club on the others. There was little left of it, save the bone itself, and a few shreds of gristle. He dropped it to the ground with the rest of the gore. It was useless now.
His mind was calming, though his body was yet possessed by the rage. He felt weak, and began to shake, taking several unsteady steps back as his legs threatened to give way. In response, he sat down, disregarding the grisly display about him, including that of Digger, who was presently at the business of rummaging through the debris for preferred morsels.
***
Borin had saved the Druid's life. Though largely incidental, there yet seemed a sense of elation to it, as if some particularly taxing weight had been lifted. We are now even, Squire Thistle.
During the fray, he had noticed his father casting several severe glances at him while dispatching several Wognix of his own. His expression was most dour. At first it made no sense. He had been too consumed by his own moral dilemma to really take note of what, or who was about him, other than what particular foe he battled at any given point. Now, in that aftermath, he recalled his mistake. He had charged without being commanded to do so. To make it worse, he had been followed by his father's own men. He abruptly came to a very clear image of himself cleaning privies for the next three summers. So much for making Sergeant.
As his father conducted a full body count, he finished wiping his blade clean, and then sheathed it. He turned from his final kill to return to the Druid, but stopped short when he caught sight of one of the most horrific views of aftermath he had ever witnessed.
Everyone in the Garrison knew Huey. He would come to Arbitos from time to time as a matter of seasonal trade, though how an Ogre had ever survived in a land full of Ogre enemies was yet a mystery, the more so as Huey's ability to communicate made in-depth conversation almost impossible. Still, he seemed to make friends with all who would allow it. Ultimately, he was but a gentle chil
d, trapped within the body of a monster. Even so, there he sat amongst what could only be described as a scene from a slaughterhouse. Let's see Father count that!
Borin walked over to him, stepping carefully around and over various components of Dark-elf, and then stopping to consider the Ogre more closely. He was covered in deep gashes and stab wounds, yet Borin suspected that most of the blood was not his own. He appeared to be simply sitting there, as if lounging in the middle of such a morbid mess was a perfectly reasonable thing to do.
Then he saw the glazed look, and how Huey was shaking, which added an almost comic image to the corpse draped about his neck, like a knitted muffler to keep him warm. His expression of absence was not uncommon. Many Warriors had been through it after their first experience of a Berserker's rage. Now it made sense.
"Huey?" he inquired gently. "Are you all right?"
Huey looked up slowly, as if from a dream. "Hi ya, Corpal Borin," he mumbled, though apparently not coherent enough to register the question.
He offered Borin the same friendly smile he had always worn when visiting the Garrison. Somehow, it seemed out of place today.
Then the Wognix on Huey's shoulder stirred, and Borin instantly drew back, grasping the hilt of his sword.
"Stop!" Jester exclaimed while walking slowly toward them, wincing with each step. "She helped us, and she's requested Sanctuary."
Borin was obviously dubious. He proffered a raised brow to accompany an unbelieving scowl that was his only available response to the Druid's absurdity. Still, he carefully removed the Dark-elf from Huey's shoulder, and then gently placed her on the ground next to him. He also removed her dagger, just in case. Extending credence to absurdity was one thing. Outright folly would only be his own shame.
Rendering Nirayel-Wayward Fates Page 14
