After nearly two hours of nonstop effort, the blaze started by the gnolls is extinguished. In total twelve buildings had been claimed. Most were homes near the north gate, though a stable had also been lost and a section of the wall surrounding Wesherby was now reduced to little more than charred remains.
Ten citizens were unaccounted for, four of them children. The young man Michael was to replace on watch is among them. This creates an odd feeling of both guilt and relief for him. Had he returned from his lunch on time then he likely would have been dragged off by the gnolls, or worse yet been among those lying outside the chapel covered by sheets.
Following the end of the immediate danger, and as per protocol, an emergency meeting of the town’s leadership is called in the chapel. The space before the altar is set aside for them, while the pews are left to the townspeople. The great oaken doors are open to those unable to find a seat in the packed space so that they might have a chance to listen.
As it is, Michael is seated in one of the pews beside Ashe as the mayor and councillors discuss the situation.
“What are we wasting time talking for?” one asks, rapping his seat with a folded strip of paper.
“The gnolls only get further away with each passing moment. We must go after them immediately!”
From across the aisle another scoffs.
“And how do you propose we do that? The watch simply doesn’t have the manpower to protect Wesherby and venture out after those who were taken.”
“We must do something! You’ve heard the stories. Those monsters will eat anything if it refuses to work as a slave,” the first shouts back.
A gentleman with dark hair shoots to his feet, pointing a finger at the one responsible for the remark.
“Why don’t you gather the volunteers and lead them then?”
There is a moment of silence, the first in nearly half an hour.
“I didn’t think you wished to. The truth of the matter is that while their loss is tragic, we are in no position to do anything for those that have been taken. I’ve already sent a rider to Fort Tallin with instructions to ride through the night and stop for nothing. He should reach the fort by morning. The army will come within two days and they can deal with the gnolls like they have in the past.”
Gentle shuffling can be heard as an eldery woman hunched beneath a shawl makes her way to the front of the room. She kneels at the altar as though the shouting match weren’t happening. The room remains silent as she begins to speak.
“Goddess, my husband is outside waiting to be buried. He lived a good life and died thinking he’d saved my grandson and I. The boy was pulled from my feeble arms by one of those monsters. Please, protect him. He’s only four, barely begun to live. Don’t bring him to your side yet, Goddess.”
An attendant guides the woman to a side room to allow for prayer in private, but her words have had a noticeable effect on those gathered.
Captain Adams stands from the front pew and turns to face the assembly.
“The army will not arrive in time. Either we rescue our own or leave them to the gnolls.”
“It was you that ordered the watch to fight the fires instead of giving chase!”
After a deep breath the retired soldier addresses the man, a twinge of guilt present in his tone.
“I did, and I would again. Wesherby has over four hundred citizens and without our homes and the village we have nothing.”
To Michael’s left several seats down, a young lady not much older than him begins to wail. Her husband, a man several years her senior, pulls her into an embrace and allows her to cry on his shoulder.
“Our little girl is missing captain, can’t we do anything?”
The somber expression of Captain Adams is partially hidden by his graying beard, but the pain in his weathered eyes cannot be mistaken. He places a hand on the sword hanging from his waist.
“I intend to lead whoever is willing to go after the gnolls and bring our people back. No one is required to follow me on this task, not even my guardsmen. Strictly volunteer.”
In an instant the mood of the room shifts from total melancholy to a subdued awe and bewilderment. To some this is the sign they have been desperately praying for. Others see it as a fool’s errand that will only result in more lives being lost. Regardless of what anyone thinks, however, there is one person who knows where he stands.
“I’ll follow you, captain!” Michael declares, stepping past those in his pew and into the aisle.
“Are you certain, Whitaker?” his superior asks. “We might not return.”
The captain’s voice is stern but Michael knows from training under him that the man is relieved that someone has answered his call.
Michael gazes at those gathered in the church. Flickers of hope begin to appear, written on their faces. The sparks are present, and all they need is a catalyst to ignite.
He should have been present when the attack began. Had Ashe not delayed him with her playful antics, Michael could have possibly prevented the loss of life and homes inflicted by the gnolls. As a guardsman he is responsible for protecting Wesherby and its people, and today he has failed. That makes it his duty to save those who had been taken and see these monsters punished for their heinous crimes.
Slowly the young watchman pulls his sword from its sheath.
“Yes sir. I swore to protect Wesherby and I intend to do it.”
“Then I’m coming as well.”
Unbeknownst to him, Ashe had crept out of her seat and snuck into the aisle beside him.
Michael is ready to protest but before he can, Aunt Marie beats him to it.
“Ashe Malachite, you sit down this instant!”
The young woman turns on her heel, her partially singed dress flowing with the motion though not quite as it should. Mother and daughter enter into a battle of wills fought via only their eyes and some rather aggressive facial expressions.
“Marie,” the voice of Lamont echoes from the open door at the back of the chapel. “Michael is going to need her help.”
Almost at once a trio of men on the west side of the room stand. Michael recognizes them as brothers who operated the stable claimed by the fire. Their horses had survived and been recovered but the building was a total loss.
“They won’t be going alone,” the shortest of the three states. “With our mounts we’ll catch the beasts in no time.”
An inkling of a smile creeps onto the officer’s lips.
“Fergus, I’ll need to requisition some of your stock.”
“Bah,” the dwarf slaps his knee. The man short of stature but not lacking in heart waves his finger at the captain of the watch. “If ye think that I be sittin’ this one oot then ye gots mo dust in yer head than me mum back in the mountains. Me stock is open tae yah.”
As more step forward to join the rescue party going after their missing friends and family members, Lamont pulls Michael and Ashe aside. Marie is waiting for them outside the church on the front step.
With her hands on her hips and her lower lip pressed down firmly by her jaw, she sets in.
“I don’t like this at all, but if you two are so certain you must go then there’s no point in my trying to stop you. Promise me you’ll be careful. You won’t leave one another’s sides and that you’ll come back.”
Michael takes a step down and places a hand on his aunt’s shoulder.
“We’ll be back before you know it Aunt Marie, and we’ll have everyone with us.”
“You had better,” the raven-haired woman replies, pulling the taller boy into a hug. After the initial shock wears off he gladly returns it.
Lamont breaks from his daughter and addresses the pair.
“I’m proud of you both for doing what’s right. The Goddess will watch over you as you do her work.”
“Of course,” Ashe agrees. “Putting others before yourself is one of the tenants.”
Realizing that he is expected to make a similar comment, Michael musters a half-hearted, “Yeah, right.”
His lack of interest in the current line of thought is lost however as Captain Adams and a crowd step out of the church.
Twenty two in total set out after the gnolls. Seven guardsmen, one wizard, a priest, a dwarven blacksmith, and two local hunters are among their number. With so many skilled individuals they might be able to rescue everyone. That is the hope carried by the villagers of Wesherby as they watch the group ride away into the late afternoon sun.
* * *
Tracking the gnolls proved to be easier than initially anticipated. With two practiced hunters and the aid of a trained hound, the pawprints that the retreating beastmen had left at the edge of the forest were trivial to find.
Upon venturing further into the woods the tracks quickly disappeared, however. Instead the rescue party was guided by drops of dried blood and broken tree branches in the underbrush. Gnolls weren’t known for their intelligence, and concealing their whereabouts wasn’t likely to have occurred to the brutes.
After walking for fifteen minutes the huntsman leading the formation signals to halt. He drops his hand, palm down, from head height to below his waist. The members of the guard recognize the order and take a knee, allowing the shrubbery to conceal them. Those unfamiliar follow suit a moment later.
“Whitaker, up here,” Captain Adams whispers from beside the scout. “Bring Missy Malachite with you.”
Ashe has traded her tattered dress for a pair of threaded pants and a cotton shirt, making it easier for her to trek through the woodland. She takes off ahead of Michael, who crawls behind her until they reach the front of the group.
Captain Adams nods over his shoulder to the left at a clearing. Several tents and a series of currently empty cages have been set up around the mouth of a cave, from which screams can be heard. The gnolls don’t appear to have expected anyone to follow them back to their hideout as there are no sentries posted near the treeline, but close to fifteen of the beasts mill around the campsite.
“I know this area,” the hunter whispers. “That cave extends into the hill for at least a quarter mile. Lots of places they could be hiding in there.”
“Damn hings kin see in th' dark tae,” Fergus murmurs.
The dwarf is clad in the most impressive armor of the group: a chain shirt, plate helm, greaves, and ringmail gauntlets. He also carries an axe bearing a series of intricate carvings.
Michael and the other guardsmen have their swords and tanned leather armor reinforced by the addition of steel rivets. The volunteers from the village are less prepared, as only a handful have any protection at all.
Captain Adams strokes his beard.
“We must take them by surprise or they will warn the others.”
As the leader of the watch continues to develop his plan a particularly large gnoll steps out of the cave. This specimen makes the one Michael had fought earlier appear to have been a runt by comparison. If he were to guess it likely would stand over eight feet tall if all gnolls didn’t have a permanent hunch to their backs. The mane is much thicker than those of its underlings and it wears a set of armor matching those of the guardsmen.
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“A pack lord,” Michael whispers.
Gnoll society emphasized two things, strength and brutality. The largest and meanest were always those who rose to positions of authority, and this massive brute had to be the biggest of the bunch.
Another of the gnolls trots over to the pack lord and offers it a shank taken from a butchered animal. After a moment of inspection the leader draws back and punches the smaller creature in the snout. It appears that a small nibble had been taken from the offering, and punishment was rendered swiftly and without mercy.
From behind the pack lord a shorter gnoll, seemingly dressed in a shawl and robes that had once belonged to a human, enters the clearing. It looks up at the hyenaman and gives a small yip.
Surprisingly the ringleader tears off a portion of the meat and offers it to the robed gnoll.
“Those two are the most dangerous,” Ashe whispers. “I’m positive the little one is a shaman. It matches the description Sageit gave me perfectly.”
Captain Adams places a hand on Michael’s shoulder. “Take Fergus and circle around to the right. I’ll send some men to the left as well. Two minutes after they leave, we attack.”
“What about–”
Ashe begins to protest but the older man is ready.
“You stay here with me, Missy Malachite. We’ll need your magic to stop that shaman, so try to hold back as much as you can.”
Now understanding the reason for her separation from her sibling, Ashe nods.
“Keep her safe, captain,” Michael whispers.
The man nods and Fergus begins to crawl away. He pauses momentarily to say something over his shoulder.
“She’ll be ‘lright lad. Nae let’s go, we've git a job tae do.”
After about five minutes of crawling, the young guardsman and blacksmith reach a point they deem to be far enough away from the rescue party. The pack lord and shaman have been eating their fill in the meantime. It wouldn’t surprise Michael if the oversized gnoll could eat an entire side of beef as a single meal after how much it seemed to enjoy gorging on the fruits of the hunt.
Time continues to pass and the sun sets, but the variables the plan depends upon remain outside the cavern even as other gnolls come and go.
Fergus takes notice of Michael’s growing unease and places a gauntleted hand on his back.
“Easy lad, we cannae take them bof t’gither.”
The youth shakes his shoulders. He’s been patient, but if they waited any longer it would be pitch black other than the light from the campfires lit by the gnolls. As Fergus has pointed out earlier, gnolls were semi-nocturnal and could see in the dark. The dwarf could as well, but humans had no such luxury.
Finally the pack lord stands, plucking its greataxe from the ground as it does. The shaman follows suit and the pair disappear into the cave entrance.
Michael counts each second after they leave eyesight, mentally preparing himself for what they are about to do. Twenty one humans and a dwarf are going to charge into a cave filled with an unknown number of vicious beastmen who would happily eat them for breakfast in the morning. All to save a handful of citizens who might already be dead.
It was the right thing to do. At the very least if no one could be saved then the gnolls would be punished, paying for their injustice with their lives.
Reaching into the pouch on his waist Michael withdraws one of the apples he’d been given earlier in the day. He slowly stands and makes ready to throw the produce at the nearest gnoll, seated on a log beside the third of four campfires.
Fergus has also made his way to his feet and grips his battleaxe with both hands. He glances at his companion and gives a subtle nod.
Having obtained permission from the only other member of his party, Michael initiates the attack.
The apple soars through the air and hits the gnoll directly in the back of its furry head. Caught off guard by the flying fruit, the beastman hunches over momentarily and barks at the closest member of the pack in aggression. Naturally, the second gnoll takes this as a challenge and begins to advance on its pack brother.
A scuffle has begun to unfold, with one of the beasts jumping on top of the other when the gnoll’s attention is drawn to a newcomer.
“For Muaradin!”
Screaming a battlecry at the top of his lungs, Fergus leaves the brush and charges at the hyenamen. It is hard to determine which is louder, the dwarf or his armor, as he covers the distance in a surprisingly small amount of time. His axe finds purchase in the neck of the stunned gnoll on top and the corpse pins its brethren to the ground.
As a result, Michael, who was only several steps behind the crazy dwarf, dispatches the second gnoll with a quick thrust to the side. He buries his blade several inches into the snouted monster before pushing it further inward until the beast stops wriggling.
When Michael looks up from his kill he sees the assault in full swing.
Captain Adams and the armed citizens are engaged with the brunt of the gnolls while the other guardsmen have struck from the remaining flank. Ashe and the priest are providing support from the rear but it is difficult for the young woman to aim her spells in the dark and chaotic environment.
The element of surprise is serving the rescue party well, as several of the gnolls fall before any of them realize what is transpiring. It merely evens the odds, however, for as soon as the gnolls come to their senses their natural prowess will make short work of the untrained members of the troupe.
While the fighting unfolds a single member of the pack makes a break for the cavern entrance. It is too far from Fergus or Michael for them to stop it and both men know that the gnoll is falling back to call for reinforcements.
“Ashe!”
Picking out her name over the noise, the silver-haired girl sees her brother pointing toward the retreating gnoll and immediately recognizes the threat it presents. Summoning forth her power over the arcane, she conjures a puddle of green liquid which forms into the shape of an arrow before darting toward her target.
The arrow splashes against the gnoll’s back just as it reaches the step. A pained bark echoes into the night and the cavern as the fluid begins to sear the flesh of the unfortunate creature. The gnoll writhes on the ground, barking and carrying on in a panic as the acid eats its way through the fur and muscle of its back and into the softer internals. It expires in a gruesome death, but not without having fulfilled its mission.
Despite the sounds of battle, Michael can discern the howls of the pack members within the cave that have been alerted to the threat and are now coming for blood.
The reinforcements come at quite the inopportune moment, as the pitched battle had already begun to swing in favor of the gnolls.
Michael and Fergus have just finished cutting down another of the pack when no less than six additional salivating gnolls charge out of their den.
The pair watch in dismay as two of the brothers from Wesherby’s stable are taken to the ground by the newcomers. One has his throat torn out by the beastman who had caught him from behind, while the other takes an arrow to the chest and another two immediately after.
“Keep fighting!” Captain Adams shouts as morale begins to waver.
He knows better than anyone that if they retreat now, the gnolls will simply hunt them down one by one until everyone is either dead or captured. The night was their realm and the only sources of light were the campfires the gnolls had used for cooking.
A cackle pierces the air as the pack lord and shaman step into the fray. The shaman’s paws glow a translucent blue as it seems to mold a ball of energy between them. Ozone overpowers the other smells of the battlefield and the spell discharges as a bolt of lightning, jumping between three members of the watch.
Michael swears he can see the skeletal structures of the men and women as they writhe and contort from the sudden electrical jolt. Seconds later they collapse with steam rising from their bodies. None so much as twitch again.
The shaman cackles with delight and dances back and forth from one leg to the next at its handiwork.
What a sick creature it must be to take such joy in the killing of other living beings. Michael hopes there is a special place in the hells for these gnolls to spend eternity in suffering.
While the shaman has reduced the number of skilled fighters on the field of battle, the pack lord has done its share to remove those who are untrained. Between the two of them they are more than making up for the losses suffered by the horde so far. To make matters worse, the gnolls seem to become even more ferocious with their leader among them. Every kill elicits a bark of orders to another as they transition from a mob of individual fighters into something resembling a cohesive unit.
Down to only ten members, the rescue party is on its dying breath. The four remaining civilian volunteers have panicked and are attempting to flee for their lives. This leaves Michael, Ashe, Fergus, Captain Adams, the hunter, and the priest to face down the gnolls.
Of the twenty beastmen to have emerged from the cavern they have suffered thirteen casualties. Ten had occurred within the first minutes of fighting and only three had been claimed since. Meanwhile the opposite is true for the rescue party, with the pack lord and shaman having accounted for nine of the twelve kills.
Three of the gnolls break off from the fight and give chase to the frightened villagers while two remain with the pack lord. The shaman also stays behind, still cackling as it prepares to cast yet another deadly spell.
With his shield in hand Captain Adams makes the brave decision to engage the pack lord in single combat. His decision allows Michael and Fergus to square off against the two brutes that had stuck around, leaving Ashe to deal with the shaman.
The priest clutches desperately to his holy symbol, chanting a prayer, but the beads of sweat on his forehead betray how dangerously close to passing out from overexertion he is.
Ashe can just hear him say, “Most holy… protect your servants as they fight in your name,” before he slumps back against a tree.
His final blessing takes shape as a set of thin spectral armor appears over the captain.
Meanwhile, Michael and his gnoll have been trading blows with one another but neither has yet to land a solid hit. The gnoll is relatively fresh while the young watchman has been through more today than most will experience in a lifetime, and it shows. Michael’s moves have become sluggish and he is very much on the defensive, narrowly avoiding being clobbered by the club his opponent wields.
Fortunately the hunter comes to his aid, firing an arrow that catches the gnoll in its left knee. It yelps in pain as the limb buckles, and the gnoll falls to its only remaining good one.
Michael swings his sword in an overhead strike, which the gnoll raises its club to intercept. Perhaps it is due to the age of the wood, or maybe the precise location near the handle where Michael’s sword connects, but when the two come together there is a loud cracking sound followed by the splintering of the simple weapon. Steel carves through flesh as the blade is buried in the crook of the gnoll’s neck.
At the same time, Ashe ducks behind one of the tents to avoid a bolt of fire conjured by the shaman. The thin canvas instantly ignites, forcing the young wizard to retreat and seek more durable cover.
This leaves the natural caster a moment to focus on another target. The wind whistles as the shaman extends its paws toward a tree on the edge of the clearing. A gale suddenly manifests and the hunter who had been perched there since the beginning of the fight is knocked from his roost. He disappears into the brush after falling a good fifteen feet and doesn’t immediately return.
Ashe has used this time to prepare a spell of her own. Three arcane glyphs appear, and from each sprouts a scorching ray of light. Two arc toward the shaman while the third targets the pack lord.
The rays find their marks and burn holes in the shaman’s robes, drawing out an infuriated snarl from the smaller creature. The pack lord takes the full effect of his radiant blast but the beast is so consumed by bloodlust that pain no longer affects it.
In spite of the damage it has suffered the massive brute follows through with the swing of its battleaxe, clanging against Captain Adams’ shield. He succeeds in blocking the blow which would have otherwise claimed his life, but at the cost of fracturing the bones in his shield arm. A kick to the chest from the gnoll’s powerful leg shatters the flimsy armor evoked by the priest and finds the man on his back.
Captain Adams attempts to rise but roots begin to emerge from the earth and take hold of his wrists and ankles.
“Captain!” Michael shouts as the pack lord raises its greataxe.
The man puts up a valiant effort, managing to free his right arm and plunge his sword into the gnoll’s midsection. However, his life is cut short just the same as the axe is buried in his chest again and again, spraying the pack lord in the guardsman’s crimson blood.
Having defeated its foe the pack lord sets its sights on the first thing it can find, the young wizard hiding behind a nearby tree.
Letting out a guttural roar, the beastman prepares to charge before something slams into its head. Breathing heavily, the gnoll wipes the bits of apple from its eyes and turns to face the source of the projectile produce.
“That’s right, ugly!” Michael screams. “I’m the one you want!”
There is no hesitation as the pack lord unleashes its full rage and barrels toward the young man.
At the last moment Michael leaps to the side and allows the gnoll to charge past and into an ancient oak. The entire tree rattles from the impact of the four hundred pound beastman, who is left momentarily dazed.
Michael is unable to feel pride in his achievement though as a blast of energy hits his side and knocks him from his feet. Roots break the surface of the earth and begin to envelop him as they had the late captain, trapping him.
It is Ashe’s turn to come to Michael’s rescue as the roots suddenly wither and die, breaking into small pieces before crumbling entirely. The shaman stands awestruck by a mirage of sparkling lights, a result of a spell she had thought would never be good for anything more than a party trick.
The pack lord has recovered for its stupor now and once again sees red. Ashe finds herself in its sights for the second time but Michael has no way of diverting its attention again. Nocking an arrow on the string of its longbow, the bipedal hyena takes aim and fires.
“Ashe!”
Michael’s younger sister turns around just in time for the arrow to strike her upper torso. A mixture of pain and shock is painted across her face as Ashe spins into the momentum of the arrow and sinks to the ground.
At that moment something stirs within the young guardsman. Each friendly causality he had witnessed had slowly added to a blinding rage building up inside of him, a rage that finally boils over. Ashe was the final straw. No one was more important to him than his younger sister, and the sight of her pained expression before she collapsed was too much for him to bear, easily pushing him past his limit.
Anger and hatred threaten to overwhelm him, bathing Michael’s vision in red and filling his mind with a lust for vengeance. The heat of a blazing inferno spreads from his chest into his limbs as a newfound and uncanny strength courses through him.
When it seems as though all his reason has been lost, something happens. The fire burning brightly within Michael remains just as vibrant, but his reddened vision is overcome with a tranquil, calming white. His mind is hazy yet collected as the light washes his pain away, giving him the control he needs to set his sights on the pack lord once more.
Kicking up his feet, the young man draws back his arm as a hammer of solid golden energy forms in his hand. He plants his feet and follows through, releasing the blunt weapon as it hurtles across the battlefield like a comet in the night sky before cracking against the pack lord’s skull. Crimson is sprayed over the bark of the ancient oak tree as the canine’s jaw shatters and an eye is crushed in its socket.
Michael is nearly on top of the beast when it opens its remaining bloodied eye. All the gnoll can make out is a human covered in sweat and viscera, his sword emitting a golden glow. Then the world goes dark.
The pack lord’s head rolls from its shoulders as Michael’s sword cuts through the tissue with incredible ease. Training dummies had proven harder to dismember in his past.
His rapid breathing slows and the sword falls to the earth, all traces of the power it had been imbued with having vanished.
Michael sinks to his knees, unaware of the bright glow cast by the rosary worn around his neck.
He is the only survivor of the rescue party. Or perhaps not, as a gentle throbbing in his back begins to grow stronger. The pain threatens to overwhelm him, filling his vision full of little sparkling stars. They could be those above in the night sky but in his current state the young man really can’t tell. His skin burns, a pain eating away at his entire body, and a throbbing in his head makes it impossible for him to think.
Quiet cackling echoes from nearby. The shaman has forced its way back to its feet and leans heavily against the mouth of the cavern for support.
A rustling in the trees can be heard as five additional gnolls carrying various pieces of wild game step into the meadow. Confused barks escape from several of their snouts as they take in the results of the battle with wide eyes.
A yip from the shaman draws their attention to the young man hunched over beside their fallen pack lord.
The gnolls drop their hunt and bark with anger. Drawing their weapons they advance on the semi-conscious guardsmen.
Suddenly, something whips past Michael. The breeze from the projectile feels refreshing against his hot skin, but only for a moment.
Yelps of pain peirce the night as two of the gnolls are skewered against a nearby tree. Another trio of swords fly through the stillness and embed themselves in the three remaining beastmen, leaving only the shaman. Before it has time to look about in fear, four more swords streak toward it.
Pinned to the ground with a blade in each of its limbs, the gnoll and Michael both watch as a pair of newcomers enter the glade. A man clad in heavy plate armor and carrying a warmaul, both emblazoned with gold and other precious metals, and a woman whose eyes glow with arcane energy wearing an elaborate traveler’s cloak.
As the woman walks the air surrounding her seems to shimmer, and the weapons of the fallen are tugged into the air before they coalesce into an orbit around her. Among them are Fergus’ axe and Captain Adams’ sword, in addition to six ornately crafted blades with amethyst-colored magical runes burning brilliantly along their blades.
“I’ll see to the wounded,” the man declares, placing the flat of his maul on the ground where the weapon stands on its own.
He approaches Michael, his hand glowing with a golden hue. The young guardsman can’t help but feel safe in the presence of this stranger. It’s a feeling of calm he can’t explain given the circumstance, but yet he is.
Pain fades as the armored figure gently places his palm on Michael’s wound.
“Young man, you are going to be alright.”
“Ashe…” Michael whispers groggily motioning toward his adoptive sister.
The woman kneels beside the silver-haired girl and nods. She reaches into a pouch and produces a vial of red liquid, pops the stopper, and feeds it to the youth.
“Rest now,” the man tells Michael as his eyes grow heavy. “You’ve made your village proud. We will see to the others.”
“Thank… you…” is all the boy can manage before he loses his fading grip on consciousness and slips into the world of dreams.
* * *
“It is fortunate that we arrived when we did, I fear any longer and it would have been too late,” the paladin says, gently guiding the young man in his arms to the ground.
Nearby, his companion has begun to treat the wounds of a dwarf. The small man has suffered from a burn inflicted by the gnoll spellcaster. Fortunately for him, his years over a forge and the natural resistance his race possesses toward heat has saved his life.
The woman stands, allowing her hood to fall and her pointed ears to spring back to their natural shape.
“I believe it is more fortunate that the rider found us when he did,” she says cooly, her voice akin to a sheet of ice. “Had he been less descriptive of the captain of the guard I would have been unable to discern his location with my scrying spell.”
Having finished treating another of the wounded the paladin glances over his shoulder at the elf with which he has spent a notable portion of his life.
“You give yourself less credit than you deserve as usual, Ireesa.”
She brushes aside the compliment and continues her work. She applies a salve to the burns on the dwarf’s back. All the while, the weapons of those who had participated in the battle continue to orbit the space around her.
“Those worthy of praise lay at our feet, Gurren.”
He nods. The paladin strides over to his mace and plucks the heavy tool from where he had left it.
“I shall fetch the horses. We can return in the morning to search for those that have passed.”
As though the wind were whispering something of great importance to the man, he halts his advance. Placing a hand over the crest on his breastplate he listens intently as it is illuminated. Reaching out with his divine magic the paladin senses multiple frightened presences nearby.
“There are villagers in the cave, and they have suffered much. I must go to them.”
Gurren pauses at the entrance to the cavern.
“I shall marshal our mounts and the humans’ horses, along with the wounded. We will be ready to depart when you return,” the voice of his companion confirms.
The man gives a silent thanks for Ireesa’s dependability in situations such as this.
Sir Gurren, heir to the noble House Loggins, High General of the Arcturian Army and paladin of the Order of Dawn, takes a deep breath and braces himself for what he may encounter inside. As a representative of both the crown and the Goddess Daichi he must project an aura of calm and composure to those in need.
With that he says a quiet prayer, illuminating the darkness of the night with the holy light cast by his mace, and steps into the cave to rescue the villagers of Wesherby.