Chapter 8 - Part 2

The Sky’s Favor pulled out of the dive at five hundred feet above the battlefield. Brunis protested loudly at bitterly, wanting to stay at the maximum range of Gullif’s spell, but Gorka would hear none of it. At the shifter’s command, the airship dove downwards. Shouts were heard as the combatants began to notice, but even five hundred feet was out of range of their weapons.

Delegado’s brain and entrails felt like they were changing places, and he was sure he was going to die. Even the Lyrandar sailors looked a bit green. Thankfully Gullif had long practice maintaining his concentration no matter what the circumstances, and he chanted the correct words at the right time.

A soft nimbus of light sprung up around the queasy half-orc, a light that resembled dancing snowflakes. In between telling himself that he was not going to die, Delegado found it oddly pretty. The light seemed amber, then lavender, and then green, and then he was standing on rocky, hot ground.

The half-orc recovered his wits immediately, and jumped behind some rocks, lying flat. Delegado had been hiding behind whatever presented itself for cover since he could walk, which was about the same time he started hunting.

The light had attracted attention, however, and shouts from goblinoid throats could be heard. Delegado rolled, sat up, and drew his bow. He had never fired it from a sitting position, but it worked anyway. The goblins were on higher ground than he, creeping upwards to the top of a ragged hill. He caught two in the back, deadly wounds where the goblin nerve endings and arteries were gathered together.

There were six other ones, and two had already seen him. One arrow went wide, and the other glanced off of his chain shirt. The others took cover, but he was used to the typical tricks goblins liked, and he could figure out where they were. His hands blurred as he got to his feet, firing his great longbow – longer than the goblins were high – three times faster than his enemies could fire their puny shortbows. The thick, taut string on the bow put all of the force he could muster into his shots, and that was a lot. All six goblins died quickly, at the cost of a slight scratch on Delegado’s calf where one had gotten lucky. Delegado was more concerned about the fact that he had just spent eight arrows, he only had two quivers with him.

The half-orc crept forward, looking around. There were other goblins and creatures about, and he was in an area of high passes and great rockfalls, perfect terrain for any number of ambushes. His keen ears weren’t helping him detect adversaries very much, as the distant roar of the battlefield was growing. He settled into a small gully, deliberately knocking some of the tan-red dust on himself, scanning the area. All of the terrain was monotonously identical. Gullif had promised to put him down within a few yards of the secret entrance to the underground monastery, but with the speed that the airship was moving, there was no guarantee of success.

Delegado’s eyes scanned the area again. One hole looked promising. While it looked like a runoff formed by seasonal flash flooding, the corners of it were too regular to the half-orc’s practiced eye, and the dust and pebbles looked too regular, as if someone had raked it behind them as they walked.

The crash of blades startled him, as it rang just over his head. Without turning his body, his inched his head sideways and looked up. Figures atop the edge of the gully were fighting each other, and threats and war cries sounded through the air.

Come on fellows, take it somewhere else, Delegado thought, wanting to get this thing done with. He could now smell blood from atop the gully. The half-orc forced himself to focus, and he easily found the power within himself. The mark on his skin tingled, and he focused on the picture of the monastery’s hidden door that he had seen in Gullif’s lens.

There! It was in the runoff, down about twenty feet on an exposed hillside, and then to the left under a blasted and stunted tree. Delegado frowned at the prospect of sprinting even such a short distance without cover, but he saw no choice.

That’s when the warforged fell on him.

It was tremendously heavy, with adamantine coloring in its armor plating. It had no head, but it still seemed to weigh over three hundred pounds. Bouncing limply down the walls of the gully, it slammed flat against him, causing him to gasp involuntarily. Machine fluid leaked onto the half-orc, and he hurriedly braced his feet, trying to get the construct’s remains off of him.

A thin figure carrying a long weapon slid down the side of the gully, landing some five feet away from the pinned half-orc. It was a Valenar elf, wrapped up in his torn and dirty desert clothes, with his double-sided scimitar painted with the blood of goblins and the machine oil of the warforged. The scimitar was the same color metal as Delegado’s longsword. Adamantine. Likely this elf was an important leader or clan noble to afford such a weapon. The elf’s eyes were hard, and his mouth flat.

“Orc,” the Valenar said, with only mild surprise. “Goblin ally.” He raised his sword for a coup de grace.

“Tharashk!” Delegado yelled. The Valenar hesitated. “Nothing to do with your battle!” He strained, but he had only a little leverage, and by the time he would get the decapitated golem rolled off of him it would be too late.

The elf hesitated, then whirled its sword back in a smooth fashion. “Prove it or you die,” it said coldly.

“Here,” Delegado said, pushing one arm out, moving the fingers on the hand in a closing motion as he crushed the dried holly leaves. His mouth spoke words that were not words, but the sounds that grass made as it pushed the earth out of its way. There were not many weeds in this area, but they were there, stubborn things that refused to die in the desert. Long, thin, tough lengths of flexible wood and nettles whipped around the elf’s wrists and ankles, jerking him backwards into a mass of writhing vegetation. The elf swore and tried to hack with his sword, but the weeds came from all directions.

Shoving with both hands while keeping his mental urging of the plants going, Delegado heaved and got out from under the dead warforged. Sweat ran down his face, soaking up the leather headband that protected his eyes, and also down his back, mixing with the ever-present dirt. He drew his sword in one hand, and with the other he fished for his papers.

The Valenar finally got free of the entangling weeds, pushing and slashing furiously with his two-bladed sword. He started to ready an attack on Delegado, but paused, noting that the half-orc’s stance was defensive.

“Read the paper,” Delegado snapped. The elf did, and then took a step back. Delegado stuffed his identification papers back into a pouch under his chain shirt. “Okay, let’s make this clear. I don’t care about your stupid war. I’m here for something else.”

“I am separated from my people,” the elf said, still holding his weapon in a tight grip. “If you are not my enemy, well it is. But you will be my vassal to get me free. Find me a place to hide.”

“Go to Khyber!” Delegado spat. “I’m not your swamp monkey!”

“Then fight me,” the proud Valenar told him. “Because I cannot win a challenge against another group of foes, but I can challenge and win a battle against you. Fight me for my ancestor’s blessing, or lead me to a place where this storm will pass me by!”

Delegado gritted his teeth, but he saw no alternative. He did not doubt that he could take this tired elven warrior, but he didn’t want to spend the time or the energy, let alone chance attracting others who would not respect Tharashk identity papers. “You pay the same fee as everyone else!” he said.

The elf laughed. “You Houses are all alike! Money first!” He reached into a belt pouch and tossed a ring made of gold. Delegado caught it with one hand. “I am Heian Fleetrider, once betrothed with this ring until a Cannith war golem slew her in front of her family. I have no love for Houses that are not of pure, blessed blood. Now show me!”

“Delegado d’Tharashk,” the half-orc told him, pocketing the ring. It had some writing on it, but he could not read elvish. “Contract accepted! Let’s go!”

Delegado bolted out into the open, not looking behind him to see if Heian was keeping up. He bolted down the runoff, and heard the yells as he and the elf were exposed for all to see. Not fifty feet away was the edge of another rise, and a hobgoblin was leading a pair of smaller goblinoids. All had bows, and arrows flew towards the half-orc. Ahead and to the right, a pair of warforged stood up suddenly, sand and loose dirt pouring off of them, and they fired heavy crossbows. One bolt took out a goblin, crumpling the wretched creature’s body up. The other sheared off part of the Heian’s chain mail, taking some meat and flesh with it. To his credit, the elf did not yell out in pain.

Delegado ignored the goblins, and chucked a tanglefoot bag at the warforged who had hit the Valenar elf. The thing’s feet were covered instantly by the sticky mess, and it could not move from its spot. Its companion dropped its crossbow and began to try to free the other warforged. This surprised the half-orc, as he did not expect the warforged to think of anything but killing their opponents.

Delegado bolted left, diving for the blasted and stunted tree. It was wide and long, with many roots that overhung the runoff trench. A goblin arrow slapped into the dirt near his head as he wiped away dust to find the hidden door. Bracing his back against the runoff and both feet against the small door, he shoved and pushed the wooden planks inward with a bursting sound.

“In, Heian!” he yelled. Heian was stumbling, having caught an arrow in his leg. Despite Delegado offering a more stationary target, the hobgoblin had decided to shoot at the elf, doubtless over some long-ago feud between the two races. The half-orc shoved himself in the narrow opening, which was about five feet in diameter, and dropped some six feet to a rough dirt floor. His eyes adjusted instantly to his orcish darkvision, and he moved forward, sword drawn.

The floor sloped down and then descended a series of natural steps. The stairs, if they could be called that, were wide enough for a person to walk in comfortable single file. The Valenar elf came in right behind him, swearing something about goblins. Delegado ignored him, watching each step carefully before stepping on it.

“I cannot see,” the Valenar whispered. Unlike orcs elves needed some light to get by, and the twist of the spiraling-down passageway quickly cut off the outside light.

“I can,” Delegado said, grabbing his arm and leading the elf over a tripwire. The Valenar hissed and jerked his arm away. “Shut up and try not to bleed too loudly, there’s an open space up ahead.”

“How do you know?” Heian demanded.

“Air currents and boot marks,” Delegado explained irritably. “Now hush.”

The two crept downwards, some thirty feet below the hillside, when all was said and done. A light came from around a bend in the stairs. Small and flickering, it had to be from two or more candles.

Delegado stepped quickly into the chamber. Carved from old stone, its worn and faded hieroglyphics showing goblins fighting a giant floating eye, it was about twenty feet wide and half again as long. An open doorway gaped at the other end of the room. Candles of thick, dripping red wax were set along the walls.

Two humans with shaven heads, wearing little but loincloths and sandals, stood at the other end of the room, holding long staves. One appeared to be little more than an adolescent, while the other had a black mustache.

“You leave, or you fight all of the Balanced Palm!” declared the mustached man.

“Hey, I’m not with the war, okay?” Delegado said. He started to get his identity papers out. “I’m Delegado of House –”

“No human challenges a son of the Valenar!” roared Heian, charging past the half-orc. Delegado swore as Heian brought down a devastating series of blows against the older human.

The mustache man ducked, as if he knew exactly where the slashes would be. He and the younger man whirled their staves, smacking the elf in the face and ribs. “We regret that you force this attack!” the young human yelled.

“Hey, can we calm down here?” Delegado asked.

“You regret that you did not surrender!” screamed Heian as he twisted around and cut the younger human’s stomach. The boy grabbed his guts as they came spilling out, and then lost the arteries in his neck to the elf’s backswing.

Delegado swore. There was no way he was going to do this peacefully, apparently.

“You have sealed your fate!” the older human yelled, smacking the elf hard on the backs of his hands. Delegado heard bone crack, and the Valenar elf dropped his two-sided sword. The human whirled the staff again and again, breaking the elf’s nose, clipping out his ankles, and finally driving the end of the staff into the elf’s unprotected throat. Heian of Valenar’s life ended with a sick crunching sound.

“Yeah, lovely,” the half-orc commented. “Look, he was no friend of mine, so why don’t we – hey!” He barely ducked the staff as it passed his head. “I don’t want to fight you!” He waved his sword at the man, but more to keep him back than anything else.

“You have chosen your path!” the monk yelled, trying to trip Delegado with the staff.

“Louder, they can’t all hear you up on the hill,” the half-orc answered sarcastically. He blocked the staff with his adamantine blade, shearing the last third of it off. “Now, I’m looking for a man from Thrane.”

The human tossed his broken staff at the half-orc, and did a series of backwards somersaults out of the room. Once well clear of Delegado he turned and began to run.

The half-orc sighed, dropped his sword, and pulled out his bow. “Nothing personal,” he muttered to himself, firing the longbow just before the human got out of range of his darkvision. The arrow was a specially prepared one, enchanted with potent acid and a bane against humans. It cut cleanly into the back of the fleeing man’s neck, and the human dropped with a gurgling sound as the acid destroyed his lungs. Delegado hurriedly retrieved his sword and sheathed it, keeping another arrow, this one with no enchantment but its tip was adamantine, out and against the string.

Creeping as quietly as possible, the half-orc stuck to the shadows left by the flickering candles, trying to make as little noise as possible. Up ahead he saw a dim light, and felt fresh air. He stepped over the body of the dead monk, whose flesh now smelled like sulfur, and entered a large open area.

The half-orc gaped. Half of the hill was missing. Great crosspieces of wood, beams of all sizes, some as thick as he was, some a thin latticework, held up the roof and stuck into the walls. A stone column in the center of the vast area bore the brunt of the weight, and showed the greatest age, but much of the hollowed-out area was new.