The Events of the 26th of Granite, 1080Part 4
The fortress in the sands belched smoke into the sky, blackening the cloudless azure above. If there were friendly observers out in the dunes - for that matter, if there were friendly observers out in the world - they would not be remiss to think that the walls had been fully breached, that the inhabitants were now soulless shells of meat and bone. Assuming that the dead hadn't been greeted by a hungry God, or an excitable army of Goblin-Demons with minds full of filth.
But that would just be assumptions.
A lull in the battle had taken place just before nightfall. A few fliers had been spotted fluttering among the smoke-filtered moonlight. They were quickly dispatched by Likot, who herself was whispering instructions and praise to a very excited Crispin. This time was spent hauling corpses instead of relaxing, dragging both the bodies and their detachable parts inside the walls. Crack teams of haulers tossed their gory prizes onto the ever growing shambles in the courtyard. Despite the source, there was hushed talk in the halls of eventually using the meat to restock the burning supply room.
But as the sun lazily began to rise over the distant eastern planes, one thing became very visible out on the sands.
The Demon Olsmo was resplendent and horric, a shadow of madness capering it's way down the road. The journey had been long indeed. Millenia had passed since Olsmo had been birthed from his own gaping, slavering stomach-womb, the afterbirth sloshing over the southern lands to wriggle and crawl into monstrous abominations never meant for this world. He had crawled and fought and consumed the others and himself once more, lavishing about on the wines and fruits of the land. And he smiled - in the past, and in the now, the oil-slicked skin that made up the corners of his cheeks spread to near splitting as he thought of all that had come in.
Great Olsmo briefly stumbled as he lifted the large jug dragging in his right hand. Bifurcated tongue slithered inside the mouth, vanishing as Olsmo's lips smashed up against the glass. He rested on the great thorned staff in his left hand, paying no mind to the dribbles of blood that sizzled and smoked the stones underneath. Lagging far behind were a quartet of Half-Breeds. The foul beasts were not their usual boisterous self. In the presence of their master, they were skittish and timid compared to their previous visits to the fortress.
***
Assembled at the gates were the remnants army, steel eyed and weapons drawn. Merkil stood at the head of the wedge, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer to the Dawn. His tongue was dry, sticking to the backs of his teeth as recited the liturgy. Fingers tightened imperceptibly around the handle of his Hammer. They tightened slightly more from his surprise.
"...fer' putting in the soul that lights up a gem in torchlight; I'm praying to you, Delar, for the lives of the fools standin' here with me." Maggarg's gruff voice stopped. Stuttered. Started on again too quiet to hear.
He lifted his head at the clatter behind him. In front Olsmo capered and consumed, and he was unfortunately accustomed to it now. But behind...
"Damn it all Rice!" Luke shouted. "Get back! In the gates!"
"No!" Rice's voice had cracked and gone hoarse with his bellowed reply.
"We're staying," shouted a smith. Other voices chimed in in agreement.
Merkil was genuinely surprised. He turned to face the newcomers, their numbers raising near thirty by his quick counting. Maybe a few more, his head was spinning with suppressed anxiety.
"If you want to piss your lives away you idiots, form up in rank and try to follow suit. We're going to kill a demon that dreams it's God today."
***
Many had fallen, either wounded or dead, but they had made great strides. No army came to replace the Half-Breed honor guard, though a haze rose in the distance as they milled in whatever served them as a camp. But they had learned two things in the awful venture so far. Don't try to get behind Olsmo, and don't get too close to Olsmo. Helmgem, one of the few remaining fishers, flopped around a few yards from the demon, gurgling and sobbing as his legs both melted and burned from the bile that had been lurched up on him. Bolts littered the ground and sprouted from his forearms and thighs like quills. But they had shattered his jug earlier in the fight, and his jovial mood began to dwindle.
Merkil, Maggarg, and Adol briefly held palaver. When the foursome broke, they stalked toward Olsmo, the demon glaring at them as he leaned on his staff.
"Everyone hold rank. I don't think he can vomit since he ran out of hooch. Ya'll just don't go about doing anything dumb an' we're all gunna walk outa here alive." Wilbur said.
Adol clanked his shield against his shoulder-plate. "Damn, damn, damn, he followed us out!"
"Don't act rash, Wilbur," Merkil said quietly. "Just..."
"WILLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLLBUR ANNNNNNNVILQUIETTTTTTTTTTTT!"
There was a scramble to reach the demon first, or at least before their daft charge could. But he was crafty and quick, and Maggarg lost a tooth to his steel shod heel. Olsmo quickly lost a finger as well, the disconnected digit bursting in to ash before it hit the stone. Wilbur was acting a dervish, whirling and slashing at anything in reach, though usually he clanged ineffectively off the metal staff. The others crept closer, trying to take advantage of the clamor, but it did not work as planned. It never did. A hasty flash of wings, and a quick strike, brought a strike to Wilburs chin. He dropped to the stones on his belly, unmoving. Maggarg caught the staff as it arced downward, the blow shattering and searing his wrist, the thrust that followed caught him in the throat.
"G-* ulk..." he dropped down to his knees, one working hand clawing at his throat. Olsmo had turned his head, lazy eyes trying to focus on the pair left standing. The barest wisp of a smile. A step towards the Dwarves.
Olsmo's bellow rattled the walls of the fortress. Some of the hardened glass where the bridge had once stood shuddered and crumbled into the ocean below. A sword thrust through the Demon's middle.
Fire licked up the blade, but they were dying down rhythmically, slowly ebbing spurts of curling flames. Goat Legs buckled underneath the Demon, and it sank, seemingly melted, into a crumpled heap.
Kuli slid in close behind Olsmo, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder. Jools was ashen, his eyes as wide as saucers, his hands shaking so hard his fore-plates rattled.
The Great Demon Lord, the Master of the Southern Lands, the Drunk God, leaned his head to the side, gawping up at the weakened Maester.
"Shhh..." Kuli squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. "There is no need for you to speak." The thin blade slid upwards with Kuli's other hand, sinking deep into the demon's skull. The Maester sank with the body, cradling it's fall, kneeling underneath the gurgling head even as his robes and hands sizzled from bile-blood-ichorsplatter.
***
From the top of his glass tower, Aryn watched the events taking place far on the shower. It wasn't the arrogant Demon after-all! He barked a laugh, short and sharp and was startled by it when the ocean lapping at the tower echoed it back. Good. The best of scenarios. To hell with it all then. Now the goblin armies, cut loose from any semblance of a leader, lay waste to everything in their path. Dwarf is an extinct species. Man and Elf will do no better at their hands.
He slapped the spyglass and it swiveled on it's tripod, axis creaking.
"Lock it up when you're satisfied, Hikan. That's a dead world now. You're a sicker man than I if you get any pleasure drooling over it."
Hours passed while Hikan stared down at the sea. Down at the slabs of glass and misting waves below him.
He could jump so easily.
Author
Topic: Migrursut: What Comes After The World Ends? [Epilogue] (A Community Fort) (Read 390207 times)