Eilam peered over the parapet, frowning at the slight column of dust. He started and immediately began shouting out the alarm. Up ahead in the distance, approaching the town from the east was a thick column of soldiers, eagerly pursuing a handful of desperately fleeing souls.
The first of the figures, a tall and emaciated figure with red eyes and dead, white hair, raced ahead of and apart from his fellows, but not without pursuit. A small contingent of goblins and an axedwarf had broken off from the main column, gaining ground on the runner. One of the goblins, an unarmed smang, managed to grab hold of the runner's arm.
Something flashed in the runner's eyes, an animal snarl twisting the elven features, and the goblin's stomach lurched. By the time it realised what was happening, the elf had already fractured its arms in three places and was several strides back in the lead. The goblin slumped to the ground and writhed as its fellows trampled across its broken form in their chase.
The second and third figures, a swordsdwarf and axedwarf both fleeing with surprising grace for their heavy plate armour, had rather more on their plate. More than ten times their number charged after them, raging and waving their weapons in ill-contained fury. At their rear, a handful of uniformed figures strode purposefully after them, armed with heavy crossbows and grim steel breastplates. Two held back, studying the battlefield.
"We should not be here," one of them muttered. "I feel you made a mistake, Captain."
"Perhaps that is why I am the Captain, and you are the Sergeant," Broose replied. He glanced down at his crossbow. Loaded. Good.
"There is no tactical advantage to bringing this few men this close to such a marginal target," Petra noted. She glanced at the advancing figures, calling the marksdwarves around her to a halt. Only the goblins, bowgoblins and a handful of dwarves were still running. She ran a thumb along the holster of her own bow. "Do you suppose you don't make mistakes in your plans?"
Broose looked away.
"Do you suppose I don't?" he asked, as if something else was on his mind.
"No."
Both swung their crossbows to face one another, each levelled perfectly at the other's head. A moment of shock, then the remainder of the marksdwarves had raised their bows as well. Out of the corner of his eye, Broose counted where the bows were pointing. A third at him, two thirds at Petra. Good enough.
"Join us," he commanded, and around him the marksdwarves shifted so they were facing their kin on the other side, almost as a wall. "There's a place for you here, Petra."
"I already have a place," she replied coldly. "You saw to that."
"Perhaps, but a dwarf can change where she stands."
"Maybe I think a dwarf should pick where she stands and stick to it."
In the distance, bows twanged and unseen combatants cried out. There was a slaughter going on, but for whom? Petra held Broose's gaze, steel for steel, then finally lifted the tip of her crossbow an inch.
"Stonebreaker's going to know everything that happened, you know," she said, carefully taking steps back along with those marksdwarves still loyal to her. "He'll hunt you down like a purring maggot, even if he has to tear down this place to do it."
"Maybe," Broose conceded, "but he'd have gotten to that eventually anyway. For what it's worth, I hope we never meet again, Petra." Petra nodded soberly.
"So do I, Broose," she said. "Because that day, I will kill you."
Eilam cranked back the winch on his crossbow. Most of the squad pursuing the elf had been taken down in the first volley, but Ascubis had already rushed out there with a spear to lend aid. He had done so by displaying as elegantly as possible the intestines of two of the goblins. Just as he drew back his spear to take out a third, Eilam's bolt sailed through the air and caught the goblin neatly through the eye. Ascubis turned to face the parapet and waved a fist.
"Kill stealer!" he yelled.
Eilam laughed, but it was cut shout by a piercing wail from the west.
Ousire wrenched the alarm whistle with all her might, glaring furtively at the heavy iron door to the smithy. Since the disaster those months before, she had forged a barrier herself, but from the plaintive whining sounds the guard dog had already fell foul of the invaders. A sudden cessation and distant crunching sound confirmed it. She planted her back against the wall and picked up an iron, stabbing it into the magma furnace until it burned.
She waited, hoarse breaths threading through her lips.
The smithy siren wailed through the city, through house and home and even to the tiny dark room of a solitary dwarf that nobody had seen for months. Alone in his bed, a silent figure lay as if in sleep, troubled by unending dream. The cry sliced through stone and air and even through such dreams, for in that moment poor Dastot the soaper awoke, freed from comatose slumber! He breathed, he cried, he thanked the gods for his relief!
He burst through the door into the streets and cried praise at the miracle of his awakening, and then a crossbow bolt slammed into the wall next to his face. Dastot, of course, screamed and ran like a little girl.
Eilam ducked down behind the fortification and black barbed arrows and steel bolts rained over it and into the city beyond. He could make out figures running, screaming - hey, was that Dastot? He'd heard he'd been in a coma for years. Huh. Eilam's mind snapped back to the moment when he saw Thob, one of the furnace operators, in a bloody heap in the street. A bolt had cut through his hand, and the broken shaft of an arrow protruded from his back. It looked as if the latter had cut cleanly through his heart.
"Get to the smithy tower!" one of his fellows cried, raising his crossbow and rushing toward the Onolite platform over the magma tube.
"No!" Eilam cried out. "The walkway isn't fortified, you'll-"
A hail of arrows thudded into the markdwarf's body as he tried to cross, clattering through the many statues on the bridge. Eilam let out a bestial roar and wrenched himself to his feet, firing down at the archers; one, two, three bolts and suddenly his quiver was empty. He fumbled for one on the ground nearby, but as he tried to winch back the bolt he saw in slow motion the archer drawing back his bow, the arrow ready to sail in a perfect arc to him and cut short what little defense he could still offer.
The bow snapped, the arrow twanging harmlessly away, as an arc of steel swept through the goblin's body. Jora stepped past and into the fray of archers, her sword cleaving long swathes as not far away the dwarf Datan brought his axe down upon skull upon skull of attackers. Eilam opened his mouth to order another volley upon the goblins.
"Fire!"
Bolts rained down on the invaders, halving their numbers in a single stroke. Eilam gaped, blinking in surprise at the blonde-bearded figure at the crest of the hill, a detachment of marksdwarves behind him, each reloading their bows with mechanical efficiency. The dwarf gave the order again, and a second volley cleaned away the last of the goblins.
Eilam took off his dented helmet and scrambled down the side of the walls, running across the blood-soaked field and wiping the sweat from his brow. He scrambled up the side of the embankment and became aware that Jora and Datan were close behind. Jora asked the question first.
"Broose? Is that you?"
The blonde dwarf nodded.
"Aye, and I've brought friends, and plenty of news about Stonebreaker to boot." He frowned, looking about. "Where's Ragna?"
----------------
A short FAQ
Why did you go?
Frustration, work commitments and frankly cowardice. One of the biggest problems I have with OK is that much of it's written in advance (or rather, the game events) and I have to keep filling in the gaps. The heavy update schedule was kind of making it difficult alongside a second three-a-week story to update too. But cowardice would be the reason I didn't say any goodbyes.
Why are you back?
People kept bugging me. I received such a heartfelt outpouring of appreciation for the story that it rekindled my desire to write it again. Everyone hates writing to a vacuum. But this time, perhaps we'll take it a bit slower. 1-2 updates a week, or maybe short updates to make it easier.
So, let's try this again.
Poll
Author
Topic: Olonkulet - Bloodlines (Read 62426 times)