"Terror With Wings"
May. 22nd, 2022 08:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
dochermes"Terror With Wings"
3/2-3/12/1218 DR
I.
First came the girl, young and fair, running through the forest for her life as fleetly as any deer with the howling of wolves at hand. She passed close by the rounded hill in the dusk without glancing at it.
Close behind her lumbered the Troll, seven feet of hard muscle and bone, tusks gnashing in his bestial mouth. With his long apelike arms and short stocky legs, he was not built for sprinting but even so he drew ever nearer to his prey.
Lastly came a dramatic form appearing from the shadows atop the hill, a warrior in dark blue tunic and yellow cloak who leaped headlong down to tackle the Troll from twenty feet up. Romal Alharod - the Mongrel!
Slammed off his feet by the unexpected collision, the Troll crashed face down in the dirt. Romal had been sure to make the brute hit the ground first to absorb the impact, and he leaped nimbly up to his feet while his larger opponent flailed about and got up more slowly. The Mongrel had the seeming of a tall, well-built Human male about thirty, with thick black hair held back by a metal diadem. It was not the surly blue eyes nor the thin bitter line of a mouth that anyone ever noticed, thought. It was that Romal's ears rose to distinct, sharp points. He made no move to draw the sword which hung in its scabbard at his left hip. The wind whipped the heavy yellow traveling cloak out behind him as Romal stood his ground.
Towering up over him, the Troll was typical of his Race, with rounded shoulders and thick arms which reached down to his own shins. He wore a harness of tanned leather which was close in texture and hue to his own yellow-brown skin. A conical skull was hidden beneath a matted tangle of coarse black hair. The Troll bellowed his rage, brought his massive iron-headed cudgel high overhead and swung it down with force that could break stone.
And Romal stopped it with one hand. As if blocking a playful slap from a child, the Mongrel clapped one hand around the head of that bludgeon and halted it in mid-swing. Nor did he grunt with the exertion. Romal's face was sullen but confident.
"What is THIS?" roared the Troll in the Common Speech of that era. "No Human has the sinew..."
"I am like no other," Romal replied grimly but in the Troll's own secret language. He gripped the club with both hands and wrested it out of the brute's grip to fling it away into the dusk. Even as he did this, though, a tawny hand big as his head closed around his throat. Any normal man would have died instantly within that clutch. Romal clamped both his hands upon the massive forearm of the Troll and began to pull. Slowly, inexorably, those fingers dug deep into the hard muscles of the Troll's arm and forced it back away from him. The grip around his neck loosened. With an abrupt dynamic surge, Romal freed himself and he sprang at his giant foe with a barrage of alternating blows which cracked rapidly against that primitive face with the sound of a hammer striking meat. The Tunnel-Dweller fell back, tried to raise his arms defensively but he took an uppercut full under the jaw that clapped his mouth shut and threw him onto his back.
"The strength of a Troll, the speed of a Snake man!" shouted Romal. "Wise as an Eldar, cruel as a Dartha. I am Romal the Mongrel, Seven In One, born of no mother."
From where she had been standing in awe of the clash, the girl stepped forward. She was very young, barely of childbearing age, slim and coltish in a plain cotton tunic which reached her knees. "Romal? I had only heard that name in wild tales around a campfire. Yet here you stand, flesh and blood, as solid as any living thing."
When he saw her auburn hair and green eyes, Romal smiled wryly. "Ah! A Myrrwhan maid. I am indeed in your realm then."
The girl dropped to one knee and held her arms out with upturned palms. "I owe you my life, sir. That beast would be gnawing at my bones had you not appeared. Yet I am in service to our Queen and I must carry out my orders. The message I bear must be delivered."
"Heh. I would have it no other way," Romal answered. He had gone to the base of the hill and retrieved a canvas traveling bag which he now slung over one shoulder. "Pause but a monent before you start runnning again, and give me some answers, if you will."
"Aye. That much I can do."
The Mongrel swept his hand to indicate the range of mountains only a dozen miles to their West. "I understood that this area between the Mournful Mountains and the Forked River was claimed by the Trolls. I thought that Myrrhwa had left this small wedge of land untouched to avoid trouble."
"It is not for me to speak of such high matters," the girl answered. "Our Queen has ordered that Myrrwha stretch its borders right up to the Mournful Mountains and we but obey. I go now to Fort Wimura, to bear the message entrusted me." She paused to give his face a searching gaze. "I will tell our Commander of your brave deed rescuing me. Come to the Fort, sir. You will be received with honor."
With that, she was off again at a full run, leaning forward almost parallel to the ground and vanishing into the woods at once.
Romal reflected that the girl would be hard to catch for any pursuer. The Troll at his feet must have been near her path by chance to have been able to get so close. This led him to kneel and determine that the Tunnel-Dweller had not been badly hurt and in fact was grumbling and stirring. It took great damage to kill a Troll, he knew. The Mongrel watched as the deepset amber eyes flickered open beneath the brow ledge and the brute tried to sit up.
"It cannot be that you struck me down," the Troll rumbled in a voice so deep as to be almost unintelligible. "No Human hand can manage that."
"I am like no other," came the answer, "For I am Romal, Alharod, Seven In One. Called by some the Mongrel. I have the strength of a Fighting Troll like yourself within a Human-seeming body. Here, stand up. Tell me your name."
"Churik. Son of Grem, I am. Where did the Myrrwhan flee? She must be stopped." As the brute rose to his full height, looking about for the bludgeon which had been thrown into the underbrush, he stared down in disbelief at Romal. "I have heard much of you," he said at last. "What is it you would have of me?"
"The smell of fresh spilled blood is on the wind. War is at hand," said the Mongrel. "Take me at once to your chieftain."
II.
For hours they trudged in sullen silence through the woods. Trolls were not talkative by nature and the one called Churik was of course resentful of both being struck down by Romal and by having to allow this strange being to accompany him. For his part, the Mongrel did not mind the quiet. It gave him time to think. He had twice met Karina, the patron goddess of Myrrwha and their initial distrust had eased into respect. Myrrwha was a society populated by women. Every few years, men from different realms were brought in to spend a few weeks impregnating the Myrrwhans; during this time, any useful skills the men knew of carpentry or leatherworking or the like were put to good use. But when their idyll was done, the men were sent to their homes and could never return to Myrrwha on pain of immediate execution. It was not a point of pride, but any male children born of the unions were drowned within minutes after delivery.
The Myrrwhans were known as invincible warriors above all else, but they also were skilled in many crafts. Their silversmiths created objects prized by nobles of Signarm or Androval, they built stone towers and castles, and the crops of Myrrwha were wisely tended. They also maintained herds of healthy cattle and noble horses, but few visitors were ever admitted to the realm even as envoys or ambassadors. The Myrrwhans kept to themselves. They had lived this way since the dawning of the Darthan Age twelve hundred years ago.
Remembering how Karina had fought, Romal visualized a nation of such women. Then he pictured them by charged by a massive wave of Trolls heaving up from their tunnels hidden beneath their enemies' feet...
As they hiked, a shadow passed quickly over them and a cold wind slapped them down off their feet. There had been no warning. Romal felt his heart pounding dangerously fast and he struggled to close numb fingers around the hilt of his sword. Vanishing into the distance was a dark winged shape larger than a Human, too far already for details to be discerned. As the Mongrel exhaled, he saw the vapor of his breath hang in the air. The chill was not merely in his mind, the air temperature had actually dropped to freezing levels.
"What was that monster which escaped from the Three Hells?" he demanded.
The Troll remained lying face down, covering his head with both arms, until Romal gave him a sharp kick. Then the Tunnel-Dweller scanned the sky until he seemed reassured. "Kushelan! The Terror With Wings! It has been seen passing over these woods in recent days."
"Has it now?" Romal rose and straightened his clothing. He would not admit it, but his legs had folded under him when that monster had flown overhead. Even now, he was trembling with a deep fear he had never known before. "Curse its bones, whatever it might be. I blame the Darthim. They have unleashed one horror after another into this fallen world."
The Troll began lumbering faster than before, head down and long arms swinging. "Better we get underground soon."
Pausing in a natural clearing where three trees stood tightly together, the brute swung his head toward the Romal. "From here, you put yourself in peril, Man. Would you go further?"
"I have said so. Lead on, Gurik."
"Know I carry no guilt for your death, I have given fair warning." The Troll fell clumsily to his knees and gripped some cut-off roots which protruded. He yanked upward, swinging up a circular plug of earth wide enough to admit even his bulk. Romal knew that the Trolls bound dirt together with their own saliva, making a substance nearly as hard as concrete. He peered down and sniffed the musty fetid air within the tunnel. It brought back harsh memories of his earlier encounters with these Cousins of Man.
Without stopping to think it over, the Mongrel lowered himself through the opening and slid down a sloping surface into the darkness. He stood up on a level surface, adjusting his swordbelt and adjusting to the gloom. A normal Human would have seen only a complete blackness but his eyes shared the Troll's acuity and they quickly adapted until he could make out vague shapes. At intervals, circular tubes led up to the surface to admit air and some light. These openings were concealed beneath brush or tree roots to prevent any discovery.
Behind him, he heard Gurik lowering the plug back into place, cutting off the surface again. When the Tunnel-Dweller straightened, he caught two amber glints six feet off the ground and knew those were Romal's eyes reflecting the minimal light even as his own did. "The tales are true, then," he rumbled. "Kumtogim blood does run through your veins."
"Lead on." They marched for what seemed like miles. The irregular walls of the tunnel stood ten feet apart and were high enough that the brutes could stand upright with clearance. Often, the tunnel had branches extending to either side and several times, the smaller shapes of Drone Trolls scuttled hastily away. Smaller and less aggressive than the Fighting Trolls, the Drones spent most of their waking hours repairing and extending the Tunnels, slathering their adhesive spit onto the dirt and working it in. Theirs was a miserable existence of labor and mistreatment by the more powerful Fighters.
Soon, they were met by several of the Fighting Trolls and escorted to a vast circular arena where a dozen of the tribe awaited. Pillars of stones held together by the natural adhesive helped support the ceiling overhead, and shafts of dim twilight showed as fresher air drifted down. Against one wall was a rude throne of stone blocks covered by furs and capped with a skull of some great tigerish beast with two long upper fangs like scimitars. Lounging back, gnawing a raw joint of meat, sat the Karularm, the chief of this tribe.
No one spoke. There was only wheezing from the great brutes. Romal planted his feet well apart, braced his fists against his hips and snorted. "Is there no chief to be found in this pack?" he shouted.
"Masuk is chief," answered the Troll on the throne, heaving up to his full height and looming a foot taller than the intruder. "What fool cannot see that?"
"Hah! The Trolls have dwindled since the days of their fathers," said Romal. "I see none with brawny arms or tusks firm in their jaws. These weaklings are hardly larger than mortal Men."
With a bellow of incoherence that did not form words, the chief plunged forward and reached out with both clawed hands. He ran directly into a straight jab that cracked like a whip and snapped his head back on its thick neck. His onrushing forward momentum was broken. As the Troll slowed and his defenses were down, Romal crashed a wide looping blow with his tight fist that rocked that bestial head to one side. Masuk did not fall but he swayed.
Because he looked Human, Romal's foes consistently underestimated him at first. The full strength of a Fighting Troll was condensed in his body, along with the speed of a Snake man. He might as well have been weilding a hammer when he struck out with his hands. Around him, Trolls had raised their bludgeons into readiness and formed an enclosing circle.
Facing them defiantly, the Mongrel waited for their chief to respond. He knew the Trolls. To get their respect and fair treatment, one had to fight them first. Seeing Masuk pause while that slow sullen brain reacted, Romal pointed an accusing finger at the chief. "I stand by your own code," he shouted in their language. "Whatever weapons you choose, whatever rules you enforce, I will lay you out in the dirt this day. What do you say?"
"The Two Boards," came the rumbling answer, and immediately the watching Trolls stamped their feet and howled their approval. Seeing that Masuk was struggling out of the leather harness around his broad torso, leaving only a loincloth that was none too clean, Romal unclasped his cloak and unbuckling his swordbelt, placing them off to one side. After only a second's hesitation, he shrugged off his tunic as well. The Mongrel's upper body was heavily muscled, crisscrossed with the white streaks of old scars. He swung his arms back and forth to warm up. He hoped his face gave away none of the trepidation that made his stomach tighten. No one was invincible. Against this immense brute, he might be challenging a foe more than his match.
The Trolls around him were visibly licking their lips. He knew that those massive jaws and hard teeth could crack his bones for the marrow. There would be no surrender, no pleading for mercy if he lost. And why was he doing this? What was a clash between Trolls and Myrrwhans to him? Not for the first time, Romal cursed his strange moods that led him to stick his nose where it did not belong. What was wrong with him, he wondering, not knowing he would never find an answer.
As he watched, Drones brought out two thick slabs of wood eight feet high and foot feet wide, wedging them down firmly into slots carved from the stone floor to that they faced each other at a distance beyond what a man could touch with both outstretched hands. Each board was studded with jagged bits of metal... the broken tips of spears and sword blades, presenting a surface that would impale and lacerate any flesh pressed against it. Some of those points were long enough to pierce a lung or puncture the heart. The Trial of Two Boards. Romal had heard of this.
"When the Board draws blood from your back, you are allowed to yield," announced the Troll chieftain. "The fires beneath the cooking pots are being stoked even now. You will be remembered as a brave vermin as we pick our teeth with our daggers."
"Who would not want such an honor?" Romal said with a straight face. He noticed the metal edges protruding from the board were black with dried blood. Wounds from such filthy surfaces would likely go infected at once.
The Karularm braced his short bandy legs wide apart, raised his arms and held out his open paws at face level. The Mongrel matched that pose and clasped the Troll's hands with his own, his slimmer fingers lost between the thick rough-hided fingers of his oppponent. At once, the watching Tunnel-Dwellers roared with excitement. Masuk pressed forward and Romal dug his toes into the hard-packed earth to try to hold his ground. Despite his efforts, he was forced backward inch by inch. Cold determination rose in his fighting heart. He pushed with all the strength in his legs and managed to slow how he was being moved, but he could not stop it entirely.
Sharp pain stung up and down his bare back. The metal shards in the Board were breaking his skin. Romal saw the hateful triumph in his enemy's brutal face and the Mongrel's spirit flared up with rage. He drew on reserves he did not think he had. The muscles in his arms and legs stood out like ropes. And Romal moved away from his board, shoving his immense opponent back a few steps. Then a few more steps. With a growl deep in his chest, the Mongrel continued to force the Troll toward the other deadly Board, moving slowly as if pushing a cart through deep mud. Twice, Masuk stopped the course of the movement and held steady but inexorably the Mongrel began to press him backward again.
Slapping their palms against the dirt, hooting and bellowing, the watching tribes lost their minds completely. They had been expecting a quick, boring execution but against all odds, this strange Human warrior was gaining ground. They fell silent as they saw Masuk near the Board and then, unbelievable as it was to them, their chief was shoved up against the dozens of sharp edges. Masuk, who had slain many challengers from his own kind, felt blades cutting into his back. He stared down into the dark blue eyes of this pointed-ear stranger and saw not a trace of hesitation or mercy, and for the first time Masuk knew fear.
"I yield!" he cried out. "Do you hear me? I yield."
Romal released the grip he had maintained on the massive hands of the Troll, stepping back. His own fingers ached so hard he could not flex them. They were locked into place for the moment. His sweaty chest heaving, legs trembling with an unsteadiness he tried to conceal, the Mongrel glared around at the encircling Trolls. "Well? Anyone else want to try his luck?"
A Drone Troll handed Romal a clay jar of water, which was warm and brackish but he chugged from it anyway, then poured the rest of its contents over his sweat-matted hair and down his back. The defeated Masuk was helped back into his leather harness and escorted back to his throne by extremely skittish Drones who obviously expected a savage outburst at any moment.
Gingerly yanking his tunic down despite the stinging cuts on his back, Romal retrieved his swordbelt and buckled it around his waist. Then he boldly marched over to where Masuk sat and dropped down to a cross-legged position on the ground. To sit directly in front of a throne was to claim equal rank but the Troll chieftain made no protest.
"Now that I know you will take me seriously, these are my words," the Mongrel said. "I do not claim any boon from you, nor do I wish any of your treasure. My wish is hear your intentions. We both know the Human women from Myrrwha have erected a fort above your Race's First Tunnels. Speak, oh chieftain, what is your intention regarding this?"
"The landslide has been triggered and cannot be halted," Masuk replied. He was flexing his powerful hands and staring at them as if they had failed him. "From every realm, my kind send their warriors. The Desert Trolls. The Swamp Trolls. Even the largest and fiercest of our Race, the Mountain Trolls, are on their way. They ache for retribution."
"If the Myrrhwans offer tribute? Gold, weapons, food?"
"Naught will be accepted. I tell you, that circle of logs the red-hairs have built will torn apart and scattered. Fires will burn in the night. The stew pots will be filled and we will feast and sing of victory until our ancestors are satisfied."
"I expected no less," Romal said. He got to his feet, feeling his legs still stiff from the exertion a minute earlier. "Now I will hie me to that fort, to parley with its commander."
Masuk leaned forward, studying his strange visitor in the gloom. "And what will your words be to them, Seven In One?"
"Hard but honest words, those are what I will speak. The Myrrwhans must abandon their fort and not set foot above the First Tunnels again. I think that your brethren will not continue deeper into Myrrwha to attack their cities with stone walls and thousands of skilled warriors, but instead will be content to claim this holy valley. Do you think I am right?"
"Yes," the Troll agreed, but then he rumbled what might have been a laugh. "Expecting a redhair fighter to retreat is to expect the leaves to fall back up onto the trees in the Fall. Slaughter is coming, Mongrel, a red nightmare of screaming and slashing."
Romal had fastened his cloak by its clasp again. Surprisingly, he bowed from the waist to the chieftain. "You do not speak Troll truth nor Human truth, but the truth as it should be spoken. I go now. A long night of running is before me if I am to speak with the fort's commander before the fighting begins."
"Wait. In this clash, I ask which side you will take, Mongrel? You look Human but you fight like a Troll."
"I am on my own side," Romal snapped. "I belong nowhere. I am like no other.
V.
[Missing Page, to be filled in. Romal makes it to Fort Wimura. Because the messenger girl had related his rescue of her, Romal is admitted and treated with politeness if not really welcomed. The Commander speaks with him briefly, explains she has a Council of War to conduct and assigns him a chamber near the top of the watchtower. He mentions the Kushelan, which causes a lot of alarmed stares but no further discussion is started. Romal is fed, given warm soapy water to wash up with, and told he will be summoned when the Commander is ready. Exhausted from his exertions and from being awake twenty-four hours, the Mongrel hands over his clothing when asked to do so and then falls onto the narrow bed to drop off asleep at once.]
He awoke at twilight, coming instantly back to full alertness. Something had broken his slumber, a sound outside the door. Drawing his sword which he had insisted remain not far from his grasp, the Mongrel rose naked from the bed and listened suspiciuously. Aside from the pointed ears, there was nothing visibly non-Human about him. His heavily muscled chest and limbs had been developed by much hiking through rough terrain and by combat. Outside the door, he found his garments neatly folded for him. They were still warm. The Myrrwhan pages had scrubbed his clothes and dried them on hot stones. Even his well-worn boots had been oiled to restore some suppleness.
With grudging thankfulness, Romal pulled up the black trousers and tied the waistband, then yanked the long-sleeved Royal blue tunic down over his torso. The traveling cloak of thick yellow cotton was fastened by its clasp around his neck next. On each wrist went a cuff of the adamantine Trom metal, matching the diadem he wore across his brows. He had not given these items over to his hosts, nor the sword.
He had also kept with him his most treasured possessionm hanging on a fine-linked silver chain around his neck. This was a delicately-crafted heart-shape made of the sacred Ensalir, gifted freely to him by the Eldar lady Anwell as a token of friendship. Many times it had grown warm against his skin in the presence of malice. He felt protected against gralic spells to a good extent when wearing it. Romal turned his head as he felt a presence in the open doorway behind him, knowing from the firm tread it was Commander Linzame. "How fares the outpost, Lady?"
"There are omens that no oracle is needed to interpret," the tall Myrrwhan replied. She had bathed, her coppery hair still damp and her face scrubbed fresh of the dust and grime it had shown before. "From the ground beneath our feet, scratching and grinding noises are heard, yet when we stand still to listen, the noises cease." She shook her head, "Some of our sentries try to conjure up reassuring explanations."
"Heh. These are not mice in the walls of a farmer's hut," the Mongrel joked. "Bringing in a few cats will not help."
"Your nerves seem steady yet," she observed.
"Insolent words may mask a trembling heart," Romal admitted. He moved out onto the wide wooden walkway which ran around the central tower. From here, he could watch the stockade walls with their logs sharpened to upward points. Between those points had been strung thin wire which would slice open the hands of any enemies attempting to climb over. Beyond the walls, a cleared space offered no cover for anyone approaching, tilled fields were in the distance and the huts of those Myrrwhans assigned to farming had emptied as all the inhabitants of this outpost had retreated to the fort.
To himself, Romal was dismayed to admit to himself that he should favor neither side in the coming fight. The Myrrwhans were lovely women, brave and resolute but they were in the wrong. The Trolls were dim-witted brutes with an unsavory practice of eating their defeated enemies, yet this fort had knowingly been erected over the one place in the world that the Trolls revered. The Mongrel was deeply troubled about the unholy mess he found himself entangled in. He wondered if his possessing Troll attributes in himself affected his loyalties. It was not only muscular strength and resistance to harm that he derived from Tunnel-Dweller traits; he admired the troll's straightforward and blunt approach to life, with their deep loyalties and fierce grudges.
Coming up behind him, Linzame said, "Is there some insight you would share, Romal? I know you have lived among the Trolls and you are said to understand their rude hearts--" Her voice faltered. At the same instant, the air chilled as if a wind from the northernmost regions had swept down over them. From the courtyard below came gasps and panicked wailing.
A shadow passed overhead, casting more spiritual than physical darkneess. Feeling even the courageous Commander of this outpost sway, he gave her his arm to lean on although he felt shaky himself. Alighting on the railing facing them was a gaunt dark-skinned nightmare. Batwings with a spread of twelve feet beat once and folded up. The monster had a Humanlike form covered with black leathery hide. A long barbed tale whipped furiously, and both feet and hands were cruelly taloned. Most shocking, the head was not that of a man but of a hunting hound with upright ears and a long grinning muzzle. The amber eyes flashed. Dark mist swirled around it like ebony flame.
The Kushelan had returned. Terror With Wings, most feared emissary of the Dread Draldros himself, the creature cocked his head as if amused at the newcomer staring back at him. Romal had dropped his hand to where his sword hung, but he could not close his numb fingers around the hilt. Deep despair and the certainty of death washed over him to sweep away his normal resolve. Then the beast shot upward more quickly than any eagle into the sky. As it passed out of sight, the oppressive feeling of fear and dismay slowly faded. Romal and Linzame did not disengage immediately but tried to get their breathing back to normal. The Mongrel was shaking visibly as no foe had ever caused him to react before.
"This is.. unseemly," the Commander said at last, drawing herself up straighter and tugging down her tunic where it had ridden up. "A Mywrrwhan fears nothing under the sun."
Staring out at the sky warily, Romal saw no sign of the Kushelan returning. For now, he thought. "That is an unnatural horror brought on by forbidden magick," he said. "It made me tremble and I like to think I am no coward. Do you have any archers here, Commander?"
"Only a few skilled in hunting. In war, we place our trust in the spear and the sword."
"I want the largest bow available and the heaviest arrows. That creature will not come within my sword's length, so my reach must extend to him," the Mongrel grumbled, still scanning the sky with deep suspicion.
Linzame snapped her fingers and a young attendant stepped forward. "Yes, my lady?"
"Bring our guest to the armory if you will," the Commander ordered. "He may select any weapon that suits him. And, Weelow, find a dagger for yourself, if only to spare yourself capture if the final moment."
Color drained from the girl's cheeks at the thought but her voice remained steady. "Yes, my lady. If our guest will accompany me?"
VI.
Over the mountains to the West, the sun turned a darker blood-red as it set, streaking the clouds and giving the dusk an ominous tint.
As darkness fell, torches were lit on the walkway over the fort, behind them were polished brass discs which reflected the light down toward the ground in front of the outpost. Myrrwhan sentries paced on their rounds, spears braced against one shoulder, reporting to their lieutenants after each circuit.
Hours after sunset, the strange scratching and scraping noises from beneath the ground ceased. Commander Linzame took this as an ominous sign and ordered everyone on immediate alert. Myrrwhans left their trenchers in the dining hall, some gulping a final swig of the watered-down wine, before hurrying to seize their weapons.
There was no warning from the enemy, not even a battle cry. Heaving up through thin crusts of earth they had left over their tunnels, the Trolls covered the walls of Fort Wimura, waving rough clubs made from tree limbs and capped with crude iron balls or spikes. A few wielded actual swords or spears they had taken from slain Myrrwhans earlier. Among the horde were many Mountain Trolls, larger and fiercer than the more common Tawny Trolls. The newcomers had hides rough and grey as stone, and they bellowed like oxen in pain. By the hundreds, the Tunnel-Dwellers crashed bodily against the gates. The Mountain Trolls were tough enough that they dug their fingers into the outer walls, gouging out chunks of wood, and began climbing.
As bad as the siege already seemed, then the ground inside the fort erupted upward in a dozen spots and more of the Trolls came pouring out. Their drones had been busily digging from below. The numbers of the attackers seemed endless. When they had heard that the hallowed First Tunnels were threatened, Trolls of every sub-species and from every clan had rushed here in a fury.
The Myrrwhans ran to meet the attack. Raised with swords in hand, their skills and strategy helped counter the greater size and strength of their inhuman foes. Myrrwhan did not wear full armor, merely tough leather tunics, because they emphasized agility and quick thinking. Some did carry bucklers small as dinner plates in their left hands to deflect enemy blows or to serve as a secondary weapon.
Watching atop the walkway from which all the guards had raced to join the fighting, Romal felt only a great weariness. Even if the Commander of this stronghold had not directly ordered him to stay out of the battle, he did not think he could have taken a side. The Myrrwhans had been told in more than sufficient time that the Trolls would take back the land over their first Tunnels. They could have vacated this fort, rebuilt it elsewhere, but the Queen wanted to claim this area near the border. So the Myrrwhans had stayed, and now they were proving their prowess. From where he stood gazing down, the Mongrel saw the battle as a disorganized melee of hundreds of individual duels. There was no room for maneuvers or formations, only to strike or be struck down.
It seemed to him that the Trolls were gradually getting the upper hand. Their size advantage was too great for the finest skill to overcome. When a Troll was pierced by sword thrust through a limb or the torso, he often kept fighting as if not hindered by it. But when a Troll club connected against a Myrrwhan, bones broke and skulls flattened. If the warrior women had been able to organize, to form outward-facing clusters against their bestial foes, they would have fared much better. Packed as that courtyard was, with both sides literally rubbing up against each other, numbers began to tell. More Myrrwhans were falling than Trolls.
Romal had strung the great war bow he had found in the armory, and had taken a leather sheath of a dozen arrows each as long as his forearm. In the back of his mind, he wondered for whom this bow had been made. It took stronger arms than most Androval blacksmiths can match to bend it enough to fasten the string. Perhaps two of the Myrrwhans strung bows like this working together to provide more powerful weapons than any single of their warriors could handle. Considering the way the battle was degrading against them, the history of the bow did not seem important.
The clash of battle faded. The shouting and the roaring were cut off. Rolling over the ground, boiling up over the stockade walls, came a dark mist too thick to be easily seen through. All warmth fled at the approaching of its chilling embrace. Both Troll and Myrrwhan lowered their weapons, unnmindful of how vulnerable this left them, and stared upward in paralyzing fascination. A gaunt dark form like a starving man with the head of a hound, the Kushelan swooped low over the fort, beating its wide-ribbed wings without sound. As its shadow passed overhead, the Tunnel-Dwellers and the warrior women averted their faces and many dropped to their knees. But the Terror With Wings was not concerned with them just then. The horror rose up and lowered his legs to crouch on the railing of the walkway, not twenty feet from where the Mongrel awaited him.
VII.
Despite his resolution to remain defiant, Romal shrank back from the monster, fumbling with numb fingers to notch a special arrow to the string. The baleful influence of Fanedral crushed down like a weight across his shoulders, filling his mind with nightmarish images of defeat and suffering. No matter. He might die but yielding was not in his nature.
The Kushelan alighted with a thud on the wooden railing which ran the walls of Fort Wimura, gripping its edges with taloned toes. Against the star-filled sky, his outline loomed up as a terrifying anomaly which should not exist in this world. The monster hopped down onto the walkway itself, leaving steaming footprints seared into the hard wood surface. The great batlike wings flapped once and then folded, and the creature stalked toward Romal.
The Mongrel found his hands were trembling and no effort of will could steady them. His jaw was clenched and his heart was pounding painfully. More from stubbornness than bravery, he raised the long bow and drew its string back to his ear. Tied around the arrowhead by its silver chain was the heart-shaped amulet which the Eldar-lady Anwell had gifted him. In the heavy murky mist which had engulfed the Fort, that tiny sigil gleamed with a warm pale gold light that defied darkness and malevolence.
The Kushelan growled and took another step forward. Its barbed tail whipped about its legs.
Romal mouthed a silent prayer and let fly. The arrow whistled through the gloom, shining brightly enough to leave an after-image in its flight. The shaft crashed against the Kushelan's lean dark chest and threw golden sparks in all directions. Pained to his withered heart by the radiance of Elvedal which was captured within Eldar talismans, the monster yelped like a hound struck across the muzzle, and he reeled drunkenly, nearly falling.
Seeing the brute injured revived Romal. It was mortal. If the Kushelan could be hurt, it could be slain. Dropping the bow and whipping out his sword, the Mongrel raced along the walkway and sprang at the creature from fifteen feet away. The blade of fine Signarm steel wheeled in a circle, backed by muscles which packed the full strength of a Troll within them, and the Kushelan's head spun away to pass over the railing into the night. But as he struck that blow, burning agony ran up Romal's arm, he convulsed and fell senseless to the walkway.
When he regained awareness, the Mongrel groaned and tried twice to sit up before being successful. His body ached as if he had been beaten with bludgeons but he still lived. The stifling mist had faded away. In the eastern sky, red streaks near the horizon showed dawn was near. How long had he been lying there? Romal got to one knee, pressing with his hands against the walkway and forced himself to stand up. There was the body of the Kushelan, all terror drained from it in death. Now, in the increasing light of day, it looked like a sad tormented beast laid to rest.
At the tip of the cracked arrow shaft, the Eldar talisman was only a blackened shapeless blob of metal. Romal saw the hilt of his sword where he had dropped it, but the blade had shattered into shards and splinters from that contact with the Kushelan. He had no weapons if some of the Trolls came up here. So be it. Only then did the deep guttural chanting from the ground far below register with his consciousness. The battle...
Leaning over the railing and gazing down at the courtyard, the Mongrel saw what he had dreaded most. Trolls danced wildly
in a circle, stamping their feet and clashing their weapons together. Piled head high, forming the hub of their victory dance, were dozens of dead Myrrwhans. As Romal watched with nausea rising in his throat, Trolls lumbered up and tossed more corpses onto the pyramid of the fallen. The howls and roars of the Tunnel-Dwellers echoed through the tail-end of night.
Romal sagged down to his knees and leaned against the railing for support, his limbs still aching and unsteady. The Myrrwhans had boasted they would never yield and never retreat, and he saw they had stayed true to their words. To one side of the courtyard, the Trolls had scooped out a deep pit in the earth and they were filling it with burning branches. Two of the brutes lashed together a framework of branches that would hold something over the flames to be roasted. The Mongrel turned away in revulsion, his stomach clenching and bile rising in his throat.
Now was the best time to go, when the triumphant Tunnel-Dwellers would have no sentries posted. The barrels of wine had surely been discovered by now. Drunk Trolls were not to be near if it could avoided. As he crept down through the dark abandoned fort, Romal found a serviceable sword lying where it had been dropped by a lifeless hand. There was a goatskin flask of water, that would also be valuable on his journey. Before he made his way unseen into the strengthening light, the Mongrel had claimed a few more useful items. He hardly realized his scavenging in his depressed state. Behind him, in courtyard as dawn broke, the Trolls began their victory feast.
3/12/1972 - Rev. 8/4/2019
3/2-3/12/1218 DR
I.
First came the girl, young and fair, running through the forest for her life as fleetly as any deer with the howling of wolves at hand. She passed close by the rounded hill in the dusk without glancing at it.
Close behind her lumbered the Troll, seven feet of hard muscle and bone, tusks gnashing in his bestial mouth. With his long apelike arms and short stocky legs, he was not built for sprinting but even so he drew ever nearer to his prey.
Lastly came a dramatic form appearing from the shadows atop the hill, a warrior in dark blue tunic and yellow cloak who leaped headlong down to tackle the Troll from twenty feet up. Romal Alharod - the Mongrel!
Slammed off his feet by the unexpected collision, the Troll crashed face down in the dirt. Romal had been sure to make the brute hit the ground first to absorb the impact, and he leaped nimbly up to his feet while his larger opponent flailed about and got up more slowly. The Mongrel had the seeming of a tall, well-built Human male about thirty, with thick black hair held back by a metal diadem. It was not the surly blue eyes nor the thin bitter line of a mouth that anyone ever noticed, thought. It was that Romal's ears rose to distinct, sharp points. He made no move to draw the sword which hung in its scabbard at his left hip. The wind whipped the heavy yellow traveling cloak out behind him as Romal stood his ground.
Towering up over him, the Troll was typical of his Race, with rounded shoulders and thick arms which reached down to his own shins. He wore a harness of tanned leather which was close in texture and hue to his own yellow-brown skin. A conical skull was hidden beneath a matted tangle of coarse black hair. The Troll bellowed his rage, brought his massive iron-headed cudgel high overhead and swung it down with force that could break stone.
And Romal stopped it with one hand. As if blocking a playful slap from a child, the Mongrel clapped one hand around the head of that bludgeon and halted it in mid-swing. Nor did he grunt with the exertion. Romal's face was sullen but confident.
"What is THIS?" roared the Troll in the Common Speech of that era. "No Human has the sinew..."
"I am like no other," Romal replied grimly but in the Troll's own secret language. He gripped the club with both hands and wrested it out of the brute's grip to fling it away into the dusk. Even as he did this, though, a tawny hand big as his head closed around his throat. Any normal man would have died instantly within that clutch. Romal clamped both his hands upon the massive forearm of the Troll and began to pull. Slowly, inexorably, those fingers dug deep into the hard muscles of the Troll's arm and forced it back away from him. The grip around his neck loosened. With an abrupt dynamic surge, Romal freed himself and he sprang at his giant foe with a barrage of alternating blows which cracked rapidly against that primitive face with the sound of a hammer striking meat. The Tunnel-Dweller fell back, tried to raise his arms defensively but he took an uppercut full under the jaw that clapped his mouth shut and threw him onto his back.
"The strength of a Troll, the speed of a Snake man!" shouted Romal. "Wise as an Eldar, cruel as a Dartha. I am Romal the Mongrel, Seven In One, born of no mother."
From where she had been standing in awe of the clash, the girl stepped forward. She was very young, barely of childbearing age, slim and coltish in a plain cotton tunic which reached her knees. "Romal? I had only heard that name in wild tales around a campfire. Yet here you stand, flesh and blood, as solid as any living thing."
When he saw her auburn hair and green eyes, Romal smiled wryly. "Ah! A Myrrwhan maid. I am indeed in your realm then."
The girl dropped to one knee and held her arms out with upturned palms. "I owe you my life, sir. That beast would be gnawing at my bones had you not appeared. Yet I am in service to our Queen and I must carry out my orders. The message I bear must be delivered."
"Heh. I would have it no other way," Romal answered. He had gone to the base of the hill and retrieved a canvas traveling bag which he now slung over one shoulder. "Pause but a monent before you start runnning again, and give me some answers, if you will."
"Aye. That much I can do."
The Mongrel swept his hand to indicate the range of mountains only a dozen miles to their West. "I understood that this area between the Mournful Mountains and the Forked River was claimed by the Trolls. I thought that Myrrhwa had left this small wedge of land untouched to avoid trouble."
"It is not for me to speak of such high matters," the girl answered. "Our Queen has ordered that Myrrwha stretch its borders right up to the Mournful Mountains and we but obey. I go now to Fort Wimura, to bear the message entrusted me." She paused to give his face a searching gaze. "I will tell our Commander of your brave deed rescuing me. Come to the Fort, sir. You will be received with honor."
With that, she was off again at a full run, leaning forward almost parallel to the ground and vanishing into the woods at once.
Romal reflected that the girl would be hard to catch for any pursuer. The Troll at his feet must have been near her path by chance to have been able to get so close. This led him to kneel and determine that the Tunnel-Dweller had not been badly hurt and in fact was grumbling and stirring. It took great damage to kill a Troll, he knew. The Mongrel watched as the deepset amber eyes flickered open beneath the brow ledge and the brute tried to sit up.
"It cannot be that you struck me down," the Troll rumbled in a voice so deep as to be almost unintelligible. "No Human hand can manage that."
"I am like no other," came the answer, "For I am Romal, Alharod, Seven In One. Called by some the Mongrel. I have the strength of a Fighting Troll like yourself within a Human-seeming body. Here, stand up. Tell me your name."
"Churik. Son of Grem, I am. Where did the Myrrwhan flee? She must be stopped." As the brute rose to his full height, looking about for the bludgeon which had been thrown into the underbrush, he stared down in disbelief at Romal. "I have heard much of you," he said at last. "What is it you would have of me?"
"The smell of fresh spilled blood is on the wind. War is at hand," said the Mongrel. "Take me at once to your chieftain."
II.
For hours they trudged in sullen silence through the woods. Trolls were not talkative by nature and the one called Churik was of course resentful of both being struck down by Romal and by having to allow this strange being to accompany him. For his part, the Mongrel did not mind the quiet. It gave him time to think. He had twice met Karina, the patron goddess of Myrrwha and their initial distrust had eased into respect. Myrrwha was a society populated by women. Every few years, men from different realms were brought in to spend a few weeks impregnating the Myrrwhans; during this time, any useful skills the men knew of carpentry or leatherworking or the like were put to good use. But when their idyll was done, the men were sent to their homes and could never return to Myrrwha on pain of immediate execution. It was not a point of pride, but any male children born of the unions were drowned within minutes after delivery.
The Myrrwhans were known as invincible warriors above all else, but they also were skilled in many crafts. Their silversmiths created objects prized by nobles of Signarm or Androval, they built stone towers and castles, and the crops of Myrrwha were wisely tended. They also maintained herds of healthy cattle and noble horses, but few visitors were ever admitted to the realm even as envoys or ambassadors. The Myrrwhans kept to themselves. They had lived this way since the dawning of the Darthan Age twelve hundred years ago.
Remembering how Karina had fought, Romal visualized a nation of such women. Then he pictured them by charged by a massive wave of Trolls heaving up from their tunnels hidden beneath their enemies' feet...
As they hiked, a shadow passed quickly over them and a cold wind slapped them down off their feet. There had been no warning. Romal felt his heart pounding dangerously fast and he struggled to close numb fingers around the hilt of his sword. Vanishing into the distance was a dark winged shape larger than a Human, too far already for details to be discerned. As the Mongrel exhaled, he saw the vapor of his breath hang in the air. The chill was not merely in his mind, the air temperature had actually dropped to freezing levels.
"What was that monster which escaped from the Three Hells?" he demanded.
The Troll remained lying face down, covering his head with both arms, until Romal gave him a sharp kick. Then the Tunnel-Dweller scanned the sky until he seemed reassured. "Kushelan! The Terror With Wings! It has been seen passing over these woods in recent days."
"Has it now?" Romal rose and straightened his clothing. He would not admit it, but his legs had folded under him when that monster had flown overhead. Even now, he was trembling with a deep fear he had never known before. "Curse its bones, whatever it might be. I blame the Darthim. They have unleashed one horror after another into this fallen world."
The Troll began lumbering faster than before, head down and long arms swinging. "Better we get underground soon."
Pausing in a natural clearing where three trees stood tightly together, the brute swung his head toward the Romal. "From here, you put yourself in peril, Man. Would you go further?"
"I have said so. Lead on, Gurik."
"Know I carry no guilt for your death, I have given fair warning." The Troll fell clumsily to his knees and gripped some cut-off roots which protruded. He yanked upward, swinging up a circular plug of earth wide enough to admit even his bulk. Romal knew that the Trolls bound dirt together with their own saliva, making a substance nearly as hard as concrete. He peered down and sniffed the musty fetid air within the tunnel. It brought back harsh memories of his earlier encounters with these Cousins of Man.
Without stopping to think it over, the Mongrel lowered himself through the opening and slid down a sloping surface into the darkness. He stood up on a level surface, adjusting his swordbelt and adjusting to the gloom. A normal Human would have seen only a complete blackness but his eyes shared the Troll's acuity and they quickly adapted until he could make out vague shapes. At intervals, circular tubes led up to the surface to admit air and some light. These openings were concealed beneath brush or tree roots to prevent any discovery.
Behind him, he heard Gurik lowering the plug back into place, cutting off the surface again. When the Tunnel-Dweller straightened, he caught two amber glints six feet off the ground and knew those were Romal's eyes reflecting the minimal light even as his own did. "The tales are true, then," he rumbled. "Kumtogim blood does run through your veins."
"Lead on." They marched for what seemed like miles. The irregular walls of the tunnel stood ten feet apart and were high enough that the brutes could stand upright with clearance. Often, the tunnel had branches extending to either side and several times, the smaller shapes of Drone Trolls scuttled hastily away. Smaller and less aggressive than the Fighting Trolls, the Drones spent most of their waking hours repairing and extending the Tunnels, slathering their adhesive spit onto the dirt and working it in. Theirs was a miserable existence of labor and mistreatment by the more powerful Fighters.
Soon, they were met by several of the Fighting Trolls and escorted to a vast circular arena where a dozen of the tribe awaited. Pillars of stones held together by the natural adhesive helped support the ceiling overhead, and shafts of dim twilight showed as fresher air drifted down. Against one wall was a rude throne of stone blocks covered by furs and capped with a skull of some great tigerish beast with two long upper fangs like scimitars. Lounging back, gnawing a raw joint of meat, sat the Karularm, the chief of this tribe.
No one spoke. There was only wheezing from the great brutes. Romal planted his feet well apart, braced his fists against his hips and snorted. "Is there no chief to be found in this pack?" he shouted.
"Masuk is chief," answered the Troll on the throne, heaving up to his full height and looming a foot taller than the intruder. "What fool cannot see that?"
"Hah! The Trolls have dwindled since the days of their fathers," said Romal. "I see none with brawny arms or tusks firm in their jaws. These weaklings are hardly larger than mortal Men."
With a bellow of incoherence that did not form words, the chief plunged forward and reached out with both clawed hands. He ran directly into a straight jab that cracked like a whip and snapped his head back on its thick neck. His onrushing forward momentum was broken. As the Troll slowed and his defenses were down, Romal crashed a wide looping blow with his tight fist that rocked that bestial head to one side. Masuk did not fall but he swayed.
Because he looked Human, Romal's foes consistently underestimated him at first. The full strength of a Fighting Troll was condensed in his body, along with the speed of a Snake man. He might as well have been weilding a hammer when he struck out with his hands. Around him, Trolls had raised their bludgeons into readiness and formed an enclosing circle.
Facing them defiantly, the Mongrel waited for their chief to respond. He knew the Trolls. To get their respect and fair treatment, one had to fight them first. Seeing Masuk pause while that slow sullen brain reacted, Romal pointed an accusing finger at the chief. "I stand by your own code," he shouted in their language. "Whatever weapons you choose, whatever rules you enforce, I will lay you out in the dirt this day. What do you say?"
"The Two Boards," came the rumbling answer, and immediately the watching Trolls stamped their feet and howled their approval. Seeing that Masuk was struggling out of the leather harness around his broad torso, leaving only a loincloth that was none too clean, Romal unclasped his cloak and unbuckling his swordbelt, placing them off to one side. After only a second's hesitation, he shrugged off his tunic as well. The Mongrel's upper body was heavily muscled, crisscrossed with the white streaks of old scars. He swung his arms back and forth to warm up. He hoped his face gave away none of the trepidation that made his stomach tighten. No one was invincible. Against this immense brute, he might be challenging a foe more than his match.
The Trolls around him were visibly licking their lips. He knew that those massive jaws and hard teeth could crack his bones for the marrow. There would be no surrender, no pleading for mercy if he lost. And why was he doing this? What was a clash between Trolls and Myrrwhans to him? Not for the first time, Romal cursed his strange moods that led him to stick his nose where it did not belong. What was wrong with him, he wondering, not knowing he would never find an answer.
As he watched, Drones brought out two thick slabs of wood eight feet high and foot feet wide, wedging them down firmly into slots carved from the stone floor to that they faced each other at a distance beyond what a man could touch with both outstretched hands. Each board was studded with jagged bits of metal... the broken tips of spears and sword blades, presenting a surface that would impale and lacerate any flesh pressed against it. Some of those points were long enough to pierce a lung or puncture the heart. The Trial of Two Boards. Romal had heard of this.
"When the Board draws blood from your back, you are allowed to yield," announced the Troll chieftain. "The fires beneath the cooking pots are being stoked even now. You will be remembered as a brave vermin as we pick our teeth with our daggers."
"Who would not want such an honor?" Romal said with a straight face. He noticed the metal edges protruding from the board were black with dried blood. Wounds from such filthy surfaces would likely go infected at once.
The Karularm braced his short bandy legs wide apart, raised his arms and held out his open paws at face level. The Mongrel matched that pose and clasped the Troll's hands with his own, his slimmer fingers lost between the thick rough-hided fingers of his oppponent. At once, the watching Tunnel-Dwellers roared with excitement. Masuk pressed forward and Romal dug his toes into the hard-packed earth to try to hold his ground. Despite his efforts, he was forced backward inch by inch. Cold determination rose in his fighting heart. He pushed with all the strength in his legs and managed to slow how he was being moved, but he could not stop it entirely.
Sharp pain stung up and down his bare back. The metal shards in the Board were breaking his skin. Romal saw the hateful triumph in his enemy's brutal face and the Mongrel's spirit flared up with rage. He drew on reserves he did not think he had. The muscles in his arms and legs stood out like ropes. And Romal moved away from his board, shoving his immense opponent back a few steps. Then a few more steps. With a growl deep in his chest, the Mongrel continued to force the Troll toward the other deadly Board, moving slowly as if pushing a cart through deep mud. Twice, Masuk stopped the course of the movement and held steady but inexorably the Mongrel began to press him backward again.
Slapping their palms against the dirt, hooting and bellowing, the watching tribes lost their minds completely. They had been expecting a quick, boring execution but against all odds, this strange Human warrior was gaining ground. They fell silent as they saw Masuk near the Board and then, unbelievable as it was to them, their chief was shoved up against the dozens of sharp edges. Masuk, who had slain many challengers from his own kind, felt blades cutting into his back. He stared down into the dark blue eyes of this pointed-ear stranger and saw not a trace of hesitation or mercy, and for the first time Masuk knew fear.
"I yield!" he cried out. "Do you hear me? I yield."
Romal released the grip he had maintained on the massive hands of the Troll, stepping back. His own fingers ached so hard he could not flex them. They were locked into place for the moment. His sweaty chest heaving, legs trembling with an unsteadiness he tried to conceal, the Mongrel glared around at the encircling Trolls. "Well? Anyone else want to try his luck?"
A Drone Troll handed Romal a clay jar of water, which was warm and brackish but he chugged from it anyway, then poured the rest of its contents over his sweat-matted hair and down his back. The defeated Masuk was helped back into his leather harness and escorted back to his throne by extremely skittish Drones who obviously expected a savage outburst at any moment.
Gingerly yanking his tunic down despite the stinging cuts on his back, Romal retrieved his swordbelt and buckled it around his waist. Then he boldly marched over to where Masuk sat and dropped down to a cross-legged position on the ground. To sit directly in front of a throne was to claim equal rank but the Troll chieftain made no protest.
"Now that I know you will take me seriously, these are my words," the Mongrel said. "I do not claim any boon from you, nor do I wish any of your treasure. My wish is hear your intentions. We both know the Human women from Myrrwha have erected a fort above your Race's First Tunnels. Speak, oh chieftain, what is your intention regarding this?"
"The landslide has been triggered and cannot be halted," Masuk replied. He was flexing his powerful hands and staring at them as if they had failed him. "From every realm, my kind send their warriors. The Desert Trolls. The Swamp Trolls. Even the largest and fiercest of our Race, the Mountain Trolls, are on their way. They ache for retribution."
"If the Myrrhwans offer tribute? Gold, weapons, food?"
"Naught will be accepted. I tell you, that circle of logs the red-hairs have built will torn apart and scattered. Fires will burn in the night. The stew pots will be filled and we will feast and sing of victory until our ancestors are satisfied."
"I expected no less," Romal said. He got to his feet, feeling his legs still stiff from the exertion a minute earlier. "Now I will hie me to that fort, to parley with its commander."
Masuk leaned forward, studying his strange visitor in the gloom. "And what will your words be to them, Seven In One?"
"Hard but honest words, those are what I will speak. The Myrrwhans must abandon their fort and not set foot above the First Tunnels again. I think that your brethren will not continue deeper into Myrrwha to attack their cities with stone walls and thousands of skilled warriors, but instead will be content to claim this holy valley. Do you think I am right?"
"Yes," the Troll agreed, but then he rumbled what might have been a laugh. "Expecting a redhair fighter to retreat is to expect the leaves to fall back up onto the trees in the Fall. Slaughter is coming, Mongrel, a red nightmare of screaming and slashing."
Romal had fastened his cloak by its clasp again. Surprisingly, he bowed from the waist to the chieftain. "You do not speak Troll truth nor Human truth, but the truth as it should be spoken. I go now. A long night of running is before me if I am to speak with the fort's commander before the fighting begins."
"Wait. In this clash, I ask which side you will take, Mongrel? You look Human but you fight like a Troll."
"I am on my own side," Romal snapped. "I belong nowhere. I am like no other.
V.
[Missing Page, to be filled in. Romal makes it to Fort Wimura. Because the messenger girl had related his rescue of her, Romal is admitted and treated with politeness if not really welcomed. The Commander speaks with him briefly, explains she has a Council of War to conduct and assigns him a chamber near the top of the watchtower. He mentions the Kushelan, which causes a lot of alarmed stares but no further discussion is started. Romal is fed, given warm soapy water to wash up with, and told he will be summoned when the Commander is ready. Exhausted from his exertions and from being awake twenty-four hours, the Mongrel hands over his clothing when asked to do so and then falls onto the narrow bed to drop off asleep at once.]
He awoke at twilight, coming instantly back to full alertness. Something had broken his slumber, a sound outside the door. Drawing his sword which he had insisted remain not far from his grasp, the Mongrel rose naked from the bed and listened suspiciuously. Aside from the pointed ears, there was nothing visibly non-Human about him. His heavily muscled chest and limbs had been developed by much hiking through rough terrain and by combat. Outside the door, he found his garments neatly folded for him. They were still warm. The Myrrwhan pages had scrubbed his clothes and dried them on hot stones. Even his well-worn boots had been oiled to restore some suppleness.
With grudging thankfulness, Romal pulled up the black trousers and tied the waistband, then yanked the long-sleeved Royal blue tunic down over his torso. The traveling cloak of thick yellow cotton was fastened by its clasp around his neck next. On each wrist went a cuff of the adamantine Trom metal, matching the diadem he wore across his brows. He had not given these items over to his hosts, nor the sword.
He had also kept with him his most treasured possessionm hanging on a fine-linked silver chain around his neck. This was a delicately-crafted heart-shape made of the sacred Ensalir, gifted freely to him by the Eldar lady Anwell as a token of friendship. Many times it had grown warm against his skin in the presence of malice. He felt protected against gralic spells to a good extent when wearing it. Romal turned his head as he felt a presence in the open doorway behind him, knowing from the firm tread it was Commander Linzame. "How fares the outpost, Lady?"
"There are omens that no oracle is needed to interpret," the tall Myrrwhan replied. She had bathed, her coppery hair still damp and her face scrubbed fresh of the dust and grime it had shown before. "From the ground beneath our feet, scratching and grinding noises are heard, yet when we stand still to listen, the noises cease." She shook her head, "Some of our sentries try to conjure up reassuring explanations."
"Heh. These are not mice in the walls of a farmer's hut," the Mongrel joked. "Bringing in a few cats will not help."
"Your nerves seem steady yet," she observed.
"Insolent words may mask a trembling heart," Romal admitted. He moved out onto the wide wooden walkway which ran around the central tower. From here, he could watch the stockade walls with their logs sharpened to upward points. Between those points had been strung thin wire which would slice open the hands of any enemies attempting to climb over. Beyond the walls, a cleared space offered no cover for anyone approaching, tilled fields were in the distance and the huts of those Myrrwhans assigned to farming had emptied as all the inhabitants of this outpost had retreated to the fort.
To himself, Romal was dismayed to admit to himself that he should favor neither side in the coming fight. The Myrrwhans were lovely women, brave and resolute but they were in the wrong. The Trolls were dim-witted brutes with an unsavory practice of eating their defeated enemies, yet this fort had knowingly been erected over the one place in the world that the Trolls revered. The Mongrel was deeply troubled about the unholy mess he found himself entangled in. He wondered if his possessing Troll attributes in himself affected his loyalties. It was not only muscular strength and resistance to harm that he derived from Tunnel-Dweller traits; he admired the troll's straightforward and blunt approach to life, with their deep loyalties and fierce grudges.
Coming up behind him, Linzame said, "Is there some insight you would share, Romal? I know you have lived among the Trolls and you are said to understand their rude hearts--" Her voice faltered. At the same instant, the air chilled as if a wind from the northernmost regions had swept down over them. From the courtyard below came gasps and panicked wailing.
A shadow passed overhead, casting more spiritual than physical darkneess. Feeling even the courageous Commander of this outpost sway, he gave her his arm to lean on although he felt shaky himself. Alighting on the railing facing them was a gaunt dark-skinned nightmare. Batwings with a spread of twelve feet beat once and folded up. The monster had a Humanlike form covered with black leathery hide. A long barbed tale whipped furiously, and both feet and hands were cruelly taloned. Most shocking, the head was not that of a man but of a hunting hound with upright ears and a long grinning muzzle. The amber eyes flashed. Dark mist swirled around it like ebony flame.
The Kushelan had returned. Terror With Wings, most feared emissary of the Dread Draldros himself, the creature cocked his head as if amused at the newcomer staring back at him. Romal had dropped his hand to where his sword hung, but he could not close his numb fingers around the hilt. Deep despair and the certainty of death washed over him to sweep away his normal resolve. Then the beast shot upward more quickly than any eagle into the sky. As it passed out of sight, the oppressive feeling of fear and dismay slowly faded. Romal and Linzame did not disengage immediately but tried to get their breathing back to normal. The Mongrel was shaking visibly as no foe had ever caused him to react before.
"This is.. unseemly," the Commander said at last, drawing herself up straighter and tugging down her tunic where it had ridden up. "A Mywrrwhan fears nothing under the sun."
Staring out at the sky warily, Romal saw no sign of the Kushelan returning. For now, he thought. "That is an unnatural horror brought on by forbidden magick," he said. "It made me tremble and I like to think I am no coward. Do you have any archers here, Commander?"
"Only a few skilled in hunting. In war, we place our trust in the spear and the sword."
"I want the largest bow available and the heaviest arrows. That creature will not come within my sword's length, so my reach must extend to him," the Mongrel grumbled, still scanning the sky with deep suspicion.
Linzame snapped her fingers and a young attendant stepped forward. "Yes, my lady?"
"Bring our guest to the armory if you will," the Commander ordered. "He may select any weapon that suits him. And, Weelow, find a dagger for yourself, if only to spare yourself capture if the final moment."
Color drained from the girl's cheeks at the thought but her voice remained steady. "Yes, my lady. If our guest will accompany me?"
VI.
Over the mountains to the West, the sun turned a darker blood-red as it set, streaking the clouds and giving the dusk an ominous tint.
As darkness fell, torches were lit on the walkway over the fort, behind them were polished brass discs which reflected the light down toward the ground in front of the outpost. Myrrwhan sentries paced on their rounds, spears braced against one shoulder, reporting to their lieutenants after each circuit.
Hours after sunset, the strange scratching and scraping noises from beneath the ground ceased. Commander Linzame took this as an ominous sign and ordered everyone on immediate alert. Myrrwhans left their trenchers in the dining hall, some gulping a final swig of the watered-down wine, before hurrying to seize their weapons.
There was no warning from the enemy, not even a battle cry. Heaving up through thin crusts of earth they had left over their tunnels, the Trolls covered the walls of Fort Wimura, waving rough clubs made from tree limbs and capped with crude iron balls or spikes. A few wielded actual swords or spears they had taken from slain Myrrwhans earlier. Among the horde were many Mountain Trolls, larger and fiercer than the more common Tawny Trolls. The newcomers had hides rough and grey as stone, and they bellowed like oxen in pain. By the hundreds, the Tunnel-Dwellers crashed bodily against the gates. The Mountain Trolls were tough enough that they dug their fingers into the outer walls, gouging out chunks of wood, and began climbing.
As bad as the siege already seemed, then the ground inside the fort erupted upward in a dozen spots and more of the Trolls came pouring out. Their drones had been busily digging from below. The numbers of the attackers seemed endless. When they had heard that the hallowed First Tunnels were threatened, Trolls of every sub-species and from every clan had rushed here in a fury.
The Myrrwhans ran to meet the attack. Raised with swords in hand, their skills and strategy helped counter the greater size and strength of their inhuman foes. Myrrwhan did not wear full armor, merely tough leather tunics, because they emphasized agility and quick thinking. Some did carry bucklers small as dinner plates in their left hands to deflect enemy blows or to serve as a secondary weapon.
Watching atop the walkway from which all the guards had raced to join the fighting, Romal felt only a great weariness. Even if the Commander of this stronghold had not directly ordered him to stay out of the battle, he did not think he could have taken a side. The Myrrwhans had been told in more than sufficient time that the Trolls would take back the land over their first Tunnels. They could have vacated this fort, rebuilt it elsewhere, but the Queen wanted to claim this area near the border. So the Myrrwhans had stayed, and now they were proving their prowess. From where he stood gazing down, the Mongrel saw the battle as a disorganized melee of hundreds of individual duels. There was no room for maneuvers or formations, only to strike or be struck down.
It seemed to him that the Trolls were gradually getting the upper hand. Their size advantage was too great for the finest skill to overcome. When a Troll was pierced by sword thrust through a limb or the torso, he often kept fighting as if not hindered by it. But when a Troll club connected against a Myrrwhan, bones broke and skulls flattened. If the warrior women had been able to organize, to form outward-facing clusters against their bestial foes, they would have fared much better. Packed as that courtyard was, with both sides literally rubbing up against each other, numbers began to tell. More Myrrwhans were falling than Trolls.
Romal had strung the great war bow he had found in the armory, and had taken a leather sheath of a dozen arrows each as long as his forearm. In the back of his mind, he wondered for whom this bow had been made. It took stronger arms than most Androval blacksmiths can match to bend it enough to fasten the string. Perhaps two of the Myrrwhans strung bows like this working together to provide more powerful weapons than any single of their warriors could handle. Considering the way the battle was degrading against them, the history of the bow did not seem important.
The clash of battle faded. The shouting and the roaring were cut off. Rolling over the ground, boiling up over the stockade walls, came a dark mist too thick to be easily seen through. All warmth fled at the approaching of its chilling embrace. Both Troll and Myrrwhan lowered their weapons, unnmindful of how vulnerable this left them, and stared upward in paralyzing fascination. A gaunt dark form like a starving man with the head of a hound, the Kushelan swooped low over the fort, beating its wide-ribbed wings without sound. As its shadow passed overhead, the Tunnel-Dwellers and the warrior women averted their faces and many dropped to their knees. But the Terror With Wings was not concerned with them just then. The horror rose up and lowered his legs to crouch on the railing of the walkway, not twenty feet from where the Mongrel awaited him.
VII.
Despite his resolution to remain defiant, Romal shrank back from the monster, fumbling with numb fingers to notch a special arrow to the string. The baleful influence of Fanedral crushed down like a weight across his shoulders, filling his mind with nightmarish images of defeat and suffering. No matter. He might die but yielding was not in his nature.
The Kushelan alighted with a thud on the wooden railing which ran the walls of Fort Wimura, gripping its edges with taloned toes. Against the star-filled sky, his outline loomed up as a terrifying anomaly which should not exist in this world. The monster hopped down onto the walkway itself, leaving steaming footprints seared into the hard wood surface. The great batlike wings flapped once and then folded, and the creature stalked toward Romal.
The Mongrel found his hands were trembling and no effort of will could steady them. His jaw was clenched and his heart was pounding painfully. More from stubbornness than bravery, he raised the long bow and drew its string back to his ear. Tied around the arrowhead by its silver chain was the heart-shaped amulet which the Eldar-lady Anwell had gifted him. In the heavy murky mist which had engulfed the Fort, that tiny sigil gleamed with a warm pale gold light that defied darkness and malevolence.
The Kushelan growled and took another step forward. Its barbed tail whipped about its legs.
Romal mouthed a silent prayer and let fly. The arrow whistled through the gloom, shining brightly enough to leave an after-image in its flight. The shaft crashed against the Kushelan's lean dark chest and threw golden sparks in all directions. Pained to his withered heart by the radiance of Elvedal which was captured within Eldar talismans, the monster yelped like a hound struck across the muzzle, and he reeled drunkenly, nearly falling.
Seeing the brute injured revived Romal. It was mortal. If the Kushelan could be hurt, it could be slain. Dropping the bow and whipping out his sword, the Mongrel raced along the walkway and sprang at the creature from fifteen feet away. The blade of fine Signarm steel wheeled in a circle, backed by muscles which packed the full strength of a Troll within them, and the Kushelan's head spun away to pass over the railing into the night. But as he struck that blow, burning agony ran up Romal's arm, he convulsed and fell senseless to the walkway.
When he regained awareness, the Mongrel groaned and tried twice to sit up before being successful. His body ached as if he had been beaten with bludgeons but he still lived. The stifling mist had faded away. In the eastern sky, red streaks near the horizon showed dawn was near. How long had he been lying there? Romal got to one knee, pressing with his hands against the walkway and forced himself to stand up. There was the body of the Kushelan, all terror drained from it in death. Now, in the increasing light of day, it looked like a sad tormented beast laid to rest.
At the tip of the cracked arrow shaft, the Eldar talisman was only a blackened shapeless blob of metal. Romal saw the hilt of his sword where he had dropped it, but the blade had shattered into shards and splinters from that contact with the Kushelan. He had no weapons if some of the Trolls came up here. So be it. Only then did the deep guttural chanting from the ground far below register with his consciousness. The battle...
Leaning over the railing and gazing down at the courtyard, the Mongrel saw what he had dreaded most. Trolls danced wildly
in a circle, stamping their feet and clashing their weapons together. Piled head high, forming the hub of their victory dance, were dozens of dead Myrrwhans. As Romal watched with nausea rising in his throat, Trolls lumbered up and tossed more corpses onto the pyramid of the fallen. The howls and roars of the Tunnel-Dwellers echoed through the tail-end of night.
Romal sagged down to his knees and leaned against the railing for support, his limbs still aching and unsteady. The Myrrwhans had boasted they would never yield and never retreat, and he saw they had stayed true to their words. To one side of the courtyard, the Trolls had scooped out a deep pit in the earth and they were filling it with burning branches. Two of the brutes lashed together a framework of branches that would hold something over the flames to be roasted. The Mongrel turned away in revulsion, his stomach clenching and bile rising in his throat.
Now was the best time to go, when the triumphant Tunnel-Dwellers would have no sentries posted. The barrels of wine had surely been discovered by now. Drunk Trolls were not to be near if it could avoided. As he crept down through the dark abandoned fort, Romal found a serviceable sword lying where it had been dropped by a lifeless hand. There was a goatskin flask of water, that would also be valuable on his journey. Before he made his way unseen into the strengthening light, the Mongrel had claimed a few more useful items. He hardly realized his scavenging in his depressed state. Behind him, in courtyard as dawn broke, the Trolls began their victory feast.
3/12/1972 - Rev. 8/4/2019
