26 – Go Forth
Omar grunted as a hobgoblin pounded his shield with a gnarled squite branch that had to weigh a hundred pounds. The impact rattled his bones and bruised his shoulder. As the shield bounced off his shoulder, Omar hacked his mace out at a downward angle, crushing the monster’s knee with a satisfying crunch. The hobgoblin fell back, only to be replaced by a handful of clamoring goblins. Omar turtled up again, hunkering back against the bus, slamming his shield left to right to give himself a little breathing room.
He could hear arrows whistling through the air; he could see the flickering streaks of fla that Kent had promised him—several of his “rangers” had the ability to add fire damage to their shots. Even so, the horde kept coming, crawling over the corpses of the fallen, driven to a frenzy by their war drums.
Things had been better at first; Omar had used his magic to slow their advance. He’d cast Consecrating Flas, creating a fire barrier, but the weight of the horde pressing against the front lines of goblins didn’t care about their suffering; they were driven through, set alight, and quickly dispatched by Omar’s flailing mace. When he grew weary, he used Power Bash to throw the goblins back, giving his shield arm a few seconds of rest. Then, his mana ran out.
Breathing raggedly, hauberk torn and stripped of scales, legs covered with stab wounds and gashes, Omar wasn’t sure he could keep up his defense much longer. He’d counted on Kent and his rangers to break the horde, to take out their drumrs, to thin their ranks. Maybe they were; maybe he’d have been overrun long ago if not for their efforts, but he didn’t think it was enough. Despite the many dead goblins, he still couldn’t count the surging mass of green-tinted little bastards howling, screaming, and clamoring for his blood.
He’d personally taken out half a dozen hobgoblins, and he was sure the archers had taken down others. Still, the drums shook the night air, echoing off the city buildings, rattling Omar’s teeth with each synchronized boom. All sorts of thoughts went through his mind as he fought his desperate battle, one of which was to wonder why other monsters weren’t drawn to the sound.
Weren’t there plenty of big, nasty beasts in the city that might want to snack on a goblin? Was that the purpose of the drums; to warn off other monsters? Did behemoths fear a horde, or did they just cautiously avoid the rhythmic booming, unsure of what would make such a racket?
Omar glanced at his mana and saw he’d regained just enough for a Power Bash. He brought his mace in close, hunkering back against the tal bus, waiting for the tide of goblins to press against him. As weapons thudded against his shield, crashed into the bus beside and around him, and hacked at his legs, he gathered a deep breath and channeled his mana. Fiery energy filled his arm; the heavy, battered shield suddenly felt light, and with a roar, he swung it right to left in an outward arc.
It was like a mule had kicked each of the goblins crowding close. They flew back, bones crunching, wailing in surprise and agony. In the resultant gap, Omar peered through sweat- and blood-filled, stinging eyes, and he realized the throng of goblins wasn’t quite as thick as he’d thought. The street was piled with their corpses, but there were noticeable gaps between the clusters of living goblins. What was more, he saw the hobgoblin drumrs. They were a hundred yards down the street, behind an impromptu barricade of rough wood and tal they’d thrown up.
As the goblins surged into the gap, forcing him to lift his shield again, Omar shifted his attention to the fight at hand, but then he saw sothing that made him jerk his gaze back toward the hobs. Another figure was there—tall, lanky, and shadowy in its ragged black clothes. Was it one of the trolls? Omar grimaced, wishing he had just a bit more energy, a bit more mana.
“Co on!” he growled, hacking his mace at one of the goblins. He struck true, crunching the heavy weapon into a narrow shoulder, but his arm ached and the scattered fires seed to pulse as his vision brightened and dimd with the thudding labor of his heart. He was breathing like he’d run a marathon, and as superficial as most of his wounds were, they were taking a toll. How much blood could he afford to lose?
Omar blocked a leaping goblin with his shield, and then it occurred to him that in that brief respite, when he’d spied out the hobgoblin drumrs, he hadn’t seen a single fiery arrow. Concentrating, he realized he couldn’t hear any. Had Kent and his rangers run out of arrows? Had they fled? Were they dead? For the first ti, so doubt entered Omar’s thoughts, a creeping vein of despair worming its way into his stalwart heart. He scowled, steeling himself with another “Co on!” as he pounded his mace into another goblin skull.
He wasn’t sure how, but he wasn’t going to fall to those damn goblins. He grinned in a bloody-toothed grimace as a thought occurred to him. How many jobs had he done that seed too tedious, too monuntal? How did he get through them all? One brick at a ti. One shovel-full at a ti. One bag of concrete mix at a ti. He laughed at the thought, slamming the edge of his shield against the crown of a goblin’s skull. “One goblin at a ti, pendejos!”
###
Andy’s Deepsmoke Shroud description specifically said it would fail with sudden movent—like attacking soone. If he were behind his enemy, that wouldn’t be such a big deal. In this case, however, he was flying right at the half-man, half-dog sentry’s face. He was counting on explosive surprise to win the day, regardless; he was fast, his spear was long, and he was excellent at placing that sharp, Balefire-coated blade where he wanted it.
Dogman—Andy’s ntal na for the guy—barked and whipped a short, heavy sword in a swooping arc, almost deflecting Andy’s spear. The blow struck hard enough to knock it off target, and the razor-edged blade punched into Dogman’s arm, carrying through to grind into the layer of stucco on the outside of the house.
Andy growled and yanked his spear back—well, he tried to yank it back, but Dogman had wrapped his hairy fist around the haft and tugged, seemingly unconcerned with the stab wound or the black flas licking their way into his flesh. Andy grunted, tugging again, but Dogman growled, refusing to let up. anwhile, the sentry hacked his thick, slightly curved short sword into the spear shaft, digging a deep notch out of the hardwood.
Fed up, Andy gathered his breath and poured mana into Cinderstorm Blast. His lungs expanded as his chest filled with scorching heat, and he was just beginning to exhale when a crossbow bolt pounded into his back, just to the right of his spine. Andy had known the other sentry was back there; he’d expected him to react when Andy killed Dogman. The only problem with that plan was that Dogman hadn’t gone down with a single, perfect stab.
Andy’s wind coughed out—the spell was in motion, there was no stopping it now—and hot, black, cinder-filled smoke billowed out of his mouth, engulfing Dogman and roiling against the side of the house. That smoke cloud probably saved Andy’s life; in a split second, he was deeply ensconced in his favorite place: the center of his fiery Cinderstorm.
In another lucky break, it seed his drake-scale coat had massively slowed the bolt. It had punched through, but Andy didn’t feel anything terrible going on with the injury; it hurt, but everything still worked; he could still breathe and move just fine. That said, as Dogman gasped, choked, and began to burn, Andy finally ripped his spear out of the guy and delivered another quick stab to his guts.
This tale has been pilfered from . If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.
Dogman hacked feebly with his sword, but he couldn’t see, let alone properly aim the weapon. Andy ripped his spear out again, then spun, scanning for the archer. It seed the lurking sentry believed in caution; he’d turned and was sprinting for the front of the house. Andy charged after him.
###
Omar’s arms were made of lead coated in fire. Every muscle, every tendon, every nerve in his trusty limbs was beyond exhaustion. He’d gone past pain a while ago, or maybe it had simply stopped registering. He had to jerk his whole body, arching his back, in order to lift his shield. Each swing of his mace was a herculean effort that left his shoulder and elbow screaming for rcy. He couldn’t give the arm a rest, though; the goblins kept coming.
“One at a ti!” he growled, stumbling forward with his shield in a sloppy bash that, nevertheless, sent two goblins sprawling. His face was sheeted with layers of blood; the bottom-most was dry and crusty, but plenty of fresh crimson glistened wetly. Still, as he peered through bleary eyes down a tunnel that seed more and more narrow as the minutes dragged on, he realized that there weren’t hundreds of goblins left. There were probably only a couple of dozen. Striding closer, maybe only twenty-five yards off, were two big hobs and, with red-glowing eyes, the troll—it had to be a troll.
The scattered goblins were backing off, forming a wide half circle as the three remaining leaders of the horde approached. Omar shifted his shield, resting the battered, gore-covered edge on the top of his boot so he could rest his arm, if only for a few seconds. He gasped for air as the three looming figures approached, and though a fire burned in his chest—a desire to fight—the world tilted slightly as the black tunnel-walls encroached. Omar saw the ground develop a strange, sudden slope, and then he was on his knees. Only pure, dogged determination kept him from falling further.
“Well, you took a lot of ’em with ya,” the troll grumbled in a hoarse, gravelly voice. He was still a ways off, but he stopped, watching Omar from the depths of his black cowl. The two hobs stopped too. Part of Omar’s mind registered the fact that they’d left their drums behind. Now they carried big iron axes. “Tough son of a bitch. I think they would’ve taken you, though—the goblins, I an. and these big boys won’t have any trouble.”
Omar realized he was hanging onto the top of his shield, holding himself up with it. He focused on a gap where an oak slat had broken free. He thought maybe the troll was still talking. Gloating? He couldn’t focus on the words, couldn’t even look up; his eyes were drawn to a point of light in his shield—a pink, fuzzy pinprick that was slowly expanding. The more he watched, the more he realized it wasn’t in his shield; it was in the air in front of it.
Omar blinked several tis, realized he couldn’t see anything other than the light now, nor could he hear the troll’s voice anymore. He looked around, saw only blackness, and turned back to the light. It wasn’t there, but a garden was. White marble flagstones, a green-wood gazebo through which hazy sunset-colored light filtered, and, all around, vines bedecked with the biggest, pinkest flowers Omar had ever seen.
He sighed, slumping down onto his knees. The absence of pain helped him to solidify an opinion of what happened: “I died, I guess.”
“No you didn’t, child. You’re still there, still on the battlefield, still bleeding onto that horrible gore-covered roadway.”
Omar whirled toward the voice, looking to his left where he saw a large white marble chair—maybe it was a throne. It was sumptuously padded with velvety green cushions, and a woman sat upon them. She was lithe and willowy, and her copper-toned skin seed to glow with an inner radiance. She smiled at him, reaching up to brush long, loosely curled auburn hair from behind her ear—her…ear. Omar stared.
The woman was beautiful for starters—flawless skin; big, golden irises that glinted more lustrously than any precious tal; full, bow-shaped lips, and when she smiled, straight, gleaming white teeth that would have put a toothpaste model to sha. The thing was, Omar couldn’t stop looking at her ears; they were pointed like the elves in the Lord of the Rings movies. Were elves real? He figured why not—fairies were.
“My poor child. My poor, brave heart! Stand! You’ve no need to kneel before , Omar Delgado, Warden of mine.”
Omar struggled to his feet, absorbing the words. As he turned to the woman, he tilted his head. “Cinerath?”
She smiled again, nodding. “I’ve been watching you, Warden. I used so influence to provoke the System into offering you my class.”
Omar looked around the garden. Beyond the flower-bedecked trellises, he saw warm, diffuse light. “Um, where are we?”
“In my soul-space. It’s not important that you understand what that is right now, but you should know that I’m in control of ti in this place. We have a mont to speak before events unfold in your universe.”
“My universe?”
She smiled, nodding. “I’ve reached across a vast distance to speak to you at this mont. It’s far easier to observe than to interact. Still, you are my Warden, and you’ve perford so bravely, so nobly since you took on that mantle, that I’d be a cur not to grant you my favor.”
Omar was having flashbacks to middle school when the teacher spoke to him about the lesson that he’d daydread his way through. “Your favor?”
Cinerath nodded, reaching over her shoulder to pluck one of the pink flowers. As she held it, Omar saw that it bore a green stem with a wickedly long thorn. “A Warden of Cinerath is a defender, a guardian against the dark. It’s a well-regarded class among my followers—respected and even revered in so civilized lands. As I said, I spent influence with the System to offer you the class, but you’ve impressed , Omar. I’ve very much enjoyed watching your exploits, watching how you stand for what’s right. Forgive , but I’ve listened to so of your deliberations—your conversations with your friends—about what is right, and I am truly honored that you found being my Warden compatible with your values.”
She stood, stepping down from the little dais upon which her throne sat. When she was before him, Omar found he had to tilt his head to look up into her golden eyes. “Your plight is dire, Warden. This ti you spend in my soul-space won’t affect you outside of it; your body is still going to be exhausted. You’re still going to be close to fainting from lack of blood, and you’ll still be bereft of mana. The foes you face will still be there. I cannot harm them—directly.”
“Directly?” Omar asked stupidly. He wondered if his darn skull had been cracked.
“As I was saying, a Warden is well respected among my people. Still, there are other classes that command more authority. Now that you’ve taken up my mantle, allowing to spend a asure of Grace to communicate with you, I can offer you a promotion. If you accept, perhaps you can deliver justice to those creatures in my na—indirectly, as it were.”
Omar licked his lips. Even in that otherworldly place, his tongue felt thick and slow. Glancing up, trying to inhale deeply through his nose, he noted hundreds of tiny, glittering stars gathered in the arched roof of the gazebo.
“My poor Warden! You’re struggling to concentrate because, though I’ve brought you here to speak, your mind still languishes in its oxygen-starved state! Let help you! Will you accept a new rank among my followers? Will you swear a new oath to ?”
Omar blinked again, turning to face the beautiful woman. She’d done nothing to make him suspicious, and she had a genuinely kind face and voice. “An oath?”
“It’s simple, and it won’t go against your devout beliefs. Listen well, and tell if you think you could repeat these words to : I swear to stand against the dark, and to seek it out wherever it festers. I will not turn away. I will not wait. I will bring hope to the helpless—and judgnt to those who would harm them.” She smiled, holding up her flower. “Can you swear all of that, Omar Delgado?”
Omar tried to focus on the words, and he felt like he understood everything she said. It was a straightforward oath, as far as he could tell, and he didn’t object to any of the sentints. He nodded, and his words slurred slightly as he said, “I swear.”
Cinerath bead. “Normally, I’d want you to repeat the words to , but this will suffice. Take this Lia-fa bloom and do not flinch from the thorn.”
She held the flower to him, and Omar took it. Cinerath moved her hand around his fingers, guiding his grip so the thorn bit into his forefinger. Omar only winced slightly. He felt transfixed by her golden gaze, but not in a way that made him helpless—he didn’t think.
Cinerath’s smile never faltered as she watched his expression. Using her own forefinger, she scooped a droplet of blood off Omar’s flesh and touched it to her other wrist. Omar watched as the blood sank into her, disappearing. “We are connected now, Omar. Should you prevail against your foes, I’ll have an easier ti of sending you ssages and favors.” She stood back from him, nodding with a distinct sense of satisfaction. Her voice grew louder, more commanding. “Now go forth, Paladin of Cinerath. Lay waste to our foes!”
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