The battle of the 24th of Moonstone, 1069Two full squads of Goblins marched south. Hammerers flanked the sides of a large grouping of crossbow goblins. Their voices, harsh and alien, bounced off the boulders and the quarry as they sang their songs of war. Two dozen pairs of boot-shod feet, maybe three, clopped in unison as they reached the road. Their spirits were high. They knew not what was at the top of the ridge.
"Sir, we're here," Sparrow panted, checking the draw on his crossbow.
"Go straight to hell," Stravitch bellowed.
"We're already there," Wilber said, his eyes wide. "It's all around us, can't you see the fire licking at our feet?"
"That's the red sands!"
"Made of fire," Wilber insisted.
Stravitch whirled on them, the sun glinting off his roughshod armor, compiled from pieces he stripped off soldiers he passed on his way out the gate. He hefted Sefulkubok in his left hand, a simple unadorned one in his right. "Stay back. If I see one bolt fly, or one sword swing, I'll kill you with the goblins. They are mine."
"We can't allow you to go out alone," Sparrow complained. "It's not right, you'll-"
But he didn't finish, he was too busy scrambling backwards from the swing Stravitch gave in his direction. Both decided that retreat was possibly for the best, though they only went as far as the next rise. Sparrow knelt and readied his crossbow, staring down the crude iron sights fitted to it. Wilber stood beside him, hoping from foot to foot, watching the unfolding mess below.
The goblins laughed as they saw Stravitch's lone form on the rise. "It's tin can, Aye!" one of them screamed in broken Dwarvish. "Rubbish bin," Came another call. "Throw away your bolts, fill it with purpose!"
Stravitch began to stride towards them, bolts clanging off his armor, leaving dents and scrapes. A few caught unprotected patches of skin, but the wounds were quick to clot over, his blood as thick as sap from all the pickling he did. The first goblin was felled with a single swing, it's head crushed into it's chest. A second wrestler came towards him, but his chest was caved, and his head popped off, streaming blood in spirals through the air like a grotesque party favor.
More dropped, wounded but not dead. As he neared the line of crossbowmen, he paused, his eyes going wide. He dropped his simple mace and reached up with his right hand, touching his nose, his cheek, his right ear - and the shaft that had pierced through all three.
"Not the face, you piece of goblin trash," he shrieked, "Not the
fucking face!"
The goblins turned to run. The squad of hammerers and wrestlers were lucky, they escaped into the desert, spurred on by the sounds of the crossbow wielders behind them.
When Wilber and Sparrow came down, many goblins were dead. Some, the wounded, had escaped, and they were unsure if it was be design or just from forgetting. A few were certainly dead, like the one Stravitch was still pounding on methodically with his mace. It was little more than a green and red smear in the sand, the fine grit having shredded it's meat to a jelly consistantcy. Wilber touched his shoulder gently, and Stravitch stopped, glaring over his shoulder.
"Why don't... I buy you a drink at Dodik's?" he asked.
"Me too," Sparrow said.
"And Dojango said he'd like to come to, maybe bring his clippers, we could, you know, just drink, talk about ... things."
Stravitch grunted, and sheathed his mace. "Excellent idea." He seemed to have forgotten about the bolt already, despite the right side of his body being soaked in mostly his own blood.
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Topic: Migrursut: What Comes After The World Ends? [Epilogue] (A Community Fort) (Read 386567 times)