Homeward (Ch. 25)
[Serial] A new villain arrives, Ryld gets angry, and the losses keep coming.
Table of Contents
Part 1: The Grove’s Bounty: Chapter 1, Chapter 2, Chapter 3, Chapter 4, Chapter 5, Chapter 6, Chapter 7, Chapter 8, Chapter 9, Chapter 10, Chapter 11
Part 2: A Mayor’s Ransom: Chapter 12, Chapter 13, Chapter 14, Chapter 15, Chapter 16, Chapter 17, Chapter 18, Chapter 19, Chapter 20, Chapter 21, Chapter 22, Chapter 23, Chapter 24
After slaying the dragon on the mayor’s roof, the boys returned home to celebrate their victory—only to find their adoptive father had been murdered at the inn. Now, the bandit army to which that dragon belonged marches into town, in search of the crystal stolen from the Elven ruins.
Part 3: Armageddon
The sunrise ushered a chill as Mule watched the Armageddon march into town. A winter morning amidst Summer’s dog days. Ice chunks flowed down the River Tidus, frozen tombs for frogs and dragonflies caught near the dragon’s impact.
Mule’s boss would be up there too, he reckoned. Tobias Grimtooth was nothing if not predictable.
He rode through the marching vanguard’s dregs. A band of hobgoblin archers sneered as he passed. Straggling kobold sappers broke away from the host to catch hornets off the roadside.
So much for respecting the chain of command. The only esprit de corps that bound the Armageddon was the promise of plunder. A promise too long unfulfilled, Mule reckoned. Ever since they got word about the crystal, the boss had wanted to keep a low profile. Telling bandits not to raid was as dreadful for morale as demanding they pray at the temple every week.
The ice flows culminated in a glacial chunk slowly melting in the sunrise. Only one of the dragon’s nostrils and wings jutted from the shallow riverbed.
And there was Tobias Grimtooth, in his ebony plate—rust be damned—weeping like a hysterical banshee beside the dragon’s corpse. Still bloody touched as ever.
He appeared a villain stepped straight from a play. One of those maudlin temple affairs about paladins who became saints. His helmet was fashioned in the shape of a black dragon’s snout complete with ornamental wings that needlessly robbed him of peripheral vision.
And then there was the cape—an actual cape—colored with crimson so bright that you could spot him across a battlefield. His soldiers claimed it had once been white until the bloodshed dyed it crimson. A fabrication, of course. Mule was there when Grimtooth acquired the garment. It was originally black.
The river’s icy water stung Mule’s ankles. He grimaced while waiting for the boss’s loud sobs to subside. The whole bloody army must have passed him weeping here, but anyone who found jest in Grimtooth’s emotional outbursts didn’t survive long.
“Sir, we’ve rounded up the villagers in the town square,” Mule said. “We can start interrogating them whenever you’re ready.”
“His life should have lasted epochs,” Grimtooth muttered between sobs, running a tender hand across the dragon’s brow. “To be cut down after living mere centuries. He was only a child.”
“Right…terrible tragedy.” If that dragon was a child, then Mule was a bloody fruit fly. “You might be interested to hear that we found the boys responsible.”
“Is that so?” Grimtooth clutched his axe and finally stepped out of the freezing water. “Lead on.”
The villagers’ expressions more than compensated for his boss’s histrionics. It was always a joy capturing one of these backward little towns. Their quivering knees and haunted eyes were a fine rejoinder to their scowls when Mule first arrived. All for the crime of hailing from mixed heritage. Well, He’d also murdered a man, but the townsfolk hadn’t known he would do that.
“My name is Tobias Grimtooth,” he said to the cowering villagers, as if introductions were necessary. “I come to your village in search of a relic. A crystal, violet in color. Its very presence is said to disrupt the flow of time. We have received reports it was hidden somewhere near this village. If you produce it, we shall leave you in peace.”
Mule cast his grumbling subordinates a stern glance to remind them of his earlier reassurances. Don’t worry boys. Even the flies you catch with honey end up dead.
The villagers considered the offer with confused stares, murmurs, and sobs. Finally, one stood. The last person Mule expected to come forward. He recognized the boy immediately, of course. The only Dark Elf in the village.
Mule cantered to Grimtooth. “Those three fought your dragon: Ryld, Abbadon, and Aust. War orphans adopted by the late innkeeper. They left the village to pursue different careers, but returned a few days ago. We’re still not sure who they’re working for. Could be the Mercenary’s Guild.”
Grimtooth examined the boy. “Your name is Ryld?”
He replied in a hoarse whisper. “It is.”
“And you know the crystal’s whereabouts?”
“I do.”
“Tell me.”
“No.”
Mule chuckled. The kid had guts, at least. Suppose killing a dragon will do that.
“Then you seek a boon?” Grimtooth asked.
Ryld balled his fists. “I seek a fight. You and I. To the death.”
This drew the bandits’ laughter. Especially the last part.
“I take it you have not heard of me,” Grimtooth said, with more levity in his voice. “I am anathema to death.”
“I’ve heard the stories. Bet a lot of folks back down from fighting you after hearing them. But I’m putting them to an end.”
“I have offered you a chance to resolve this without bloodshed. Why seek my death?”
“Your goons got a jumpstart on the bloodshed. They killed someone I was trying to protect.”
“I see,” Grimtooth said wistfully. “I grieve today, as well. If it is a duel you seek, you shall have it.”
Mule winced. That Dark Elf was their best lead to the crystal. It wouldn’t do to have Grimtooth chop him to pieces before they questioned him. Besides, Mule was looking forward to torturing the foul-mouthed brat.
Yet slaughtering him in such a public contest might also carry some upside. It would crush the town’s spirits to watch their dragon-slayer laid low and go a way toward raising the Armageddon’s own. Mule hadn’t failed to notice that none of Grimtooth’s other scaly compatriots came calling this morning.
“If you kill me, my brother Aust will tell you where we found the crystal,” Ryld said. “He’s a temple cleric and can’t lie.”
“But Ryld,” the cleric said. “That Halfling—”
“Shut up, Aust,” Ryld barked. “For once, just both of you shut up.”
Grimtooth dismounted. On foot, he stood heads taller than his challenger. Many had assumed the Armageddon’s commander carried Orcish blood given his stature and surname. Yet beneath his black armor rested a mere human, albeit one of uncanny strength and fortitude.
“Bring Ryld his weapon.”
Mule retreated to the empty blacksmith that had served as their impromptu armory. The sword proved easy enough to spot. An unusual piece. Some sort of katana fashioned from sharpened bone.
The boy snarled as he snatched it. He paced the town square with practice strokes.
An unusual fighting style as well. He adopted the stance of a Sienese samurai. Yet his form suffered two drawbacks when compared to those venerable swordsmen. The samurai traditionally fought with two swords, while this boy carried only one. Like most Dark Elves, he favored his left hand, which meant he could only access the style’s defensive forms.
Meanwhile, Grimtooth removed his axe from his beleaguered horse’s saddle. A steel double-bit blade with serrated edges. The weapon was of Orcish design. Wielded by pirates of the Polar Sea to chop open ship rigging with a single swing.
Yup, Mule thought. This will be a quick one.
“Are you ready?” Grimtooth asked.
The Dark Elf answered with a flurry of cuts. Grimtooth soon recovered from the unsportsmanlike blitz, catching the tip of Ryld’s blade in a groove along the axe’s haft. With two hands for leverage, he easily pushed his opponent back into striking range.
To the boy’s credit, he fought wisely on the defensive. He weaved and dodged Grimtooth’s powerful swings, saving his strength to parry those lesser blows that might afford him a tactical advantage.
Yet Grimtooth also fought with consummate skill. His form never faltered, and his body never wearied. Mule had watched the man hold a front line from sundown to sunrise. If the Dark Elf hoped to win through attrition, he would be sorely disappointed.
Grimtooth quickly tired of playing feints and parries. He raised his axe overhead for a slice that would force his opponent to retreat beyond the katana’s striking distance.
And here, Ryld made his first tactical mistake. Rather than concede ground, he spun toward Grimtooth. The maneuver left his unarmed right side open to counterattack.
Or so Mule believed.
He blinked at the exchange’s aftermath. It seemed like some sort of sorcerer’s trick. As if Ryld’s blade had phased right through the axe and sliced into Grimtooth’s shoulder.
Ah. The katana now rested in Ryld’s right hand. He must have switched it mid-spin, delivering a blow far too powerful for someone who didn’t favor that hand in combat.
A bold play, Mule admitted. It took balls the size of an ancient dragon’s confronting Tobias Grimtooth with a handicap just to conceal his dominant hand.
“A right-handed strike,” Grimtooth said. “You do not share the Dark Elves’ predilection for sinistral combat.”
“I grew up among humans.”
“Ah.” He nodded appreciatively. “Our kind offers little tolerance for those who are different.”
“No,” Ryld growled, pressing the blade deeper. “There was one who offered plenty.”
Grimtooth pressed the haft of his axe against the blade, prying it off. Blood trickled down his shoulder, adding a brighter coat to his cape.
“A curious weapon. Few have drawn my blood.”
“Wyrmtalon.” Ryld cleaned the blade against his palm. “Forged from dragon bone.”
“Perhaps this shall be the instrument to end my torment,” Grimtooth said. The man never passed an opportunity for melodrama.
With first-blood claimed, their clash resumed. Grimtooth’s wound had slowed him little, but Mule could tell his boss was taking the fight seriously now. The Dark Elf wasn’t the only one concealing the true extent of his power.
Grimtooth kicked Ryld in the solar plexus, sending him reeling out of range. Then he slid one hand to the bottom of the haft. The other hand, he removed completely.
This was how Tobias Grimtooth went to war. Fighting one-handed with a weapon that even most Orcs struggled to swing with two. It doubled the weapon’s reach but also freed his range of motion, a fact on which he capitalized by launching into a spinning flurry. Each swing compounded the dance’s momentum until Grimtooth became a twister of vorpal cuts.
He advanced until the Dark Elf’s back was pressed against the stone mill. With no ground left to give, Ryld grasped his katana in both hands for an overhead block.
To Mule’s surprise, his dexterity proved adequate to intercept the blow. He thrust the blunt end of his blade into the crook of the axe-head.
Yet, his strength proved wanting.
Once the weapons interlocked, Grimtooth ripped the Dark Elf’s feet off the ground. Caught in the twister, his flailing body completed a full revolution before he lost his grip. The blade flew overhead. Then, a sickening crack filled the air as Ryld’s skull bashed the stone.
That should have been enough to kill him, but the Dark Elf propped himself up on shaking legs. Tenacious, that one. He snarled at his opponent, concussed, and, more importantly, unarmed.
“Now would be when a wise man yields,” Grimtooth said.
“We said…to the…death,” Ryld replied between wheezing breaths.
“As you wish.”
Grimtooth raised his axe overhead. The boy had clearly earned his respect. The boss was one to leave his enemies bleeding out on the battlefield for hours, either through spite or indifference. This cut, however, would prove painless. A death more troubling to those who witnessed it than to the boy who suffered it.
Mule caught himself wincing. Was he going soft? Perhaps the brat had grown on him as well.
When he examined the aftermath, his brow furrowed. Grimtooth stood frozen, still readying his swing. Then the axe clattered to the ground.
A blade jutted from his chest.
He was run through. Gouged between the ribs. That was a drawback of his ungainly size. It left gaps in his armor.
As Grimtooth timbered, the killer was revealed. One of the innkeeper’s boys, of course. The Half-Elf sorcerer.
“Abbadon…” Ryld growled. “What the hell did you do?”
“He was about to kill you!”
“Yeah. That’s typically what happens in a fight to the death.”
“Well, I didn’t agree to that. Was I supposed to let you die after we just lost Dad?”
“Oh no…” Aust knelt beside Grimtooth’s fallen form, pressing a finger on his neck. As if the growing pool of blood wasn’t enough confirmation. “We definitely can’t heal him.”
“It was a duel,” Ryld barked. “You deprived me of an honorable death.”
“I’m trying to deprive you of every kind of death.” Abbadon ripped the sword from Grimtooth’s back and threw it to his brother.
The three boys raised their guard as the bandits shifted from spectators to combatants. Hobgoblins, gnolls, kobolds, and dozens of other tough sons-of-wargs who’d all just watched their leader get shamelessly stabbed in the back.
Mule let out a sharp whistle to halt their advance. He needed those boys alive. Yet his field promotion to command the Armageddon proved short-lived. They always did.
A sharp breath pierced the air. Tobias Grimtooth pushed himself off the dirt, rising once more. Blood gushed like a rainstorm. An inevitably grisly sight when the heart restarted inside a body that still suffered a gaping, mortal wound.
Entrails hung off him like loose rucksack straps. He tightened his armor, using the plate as a makeshift tourniquet to close the wound. The cleric and sorcerer skittered backward as he picked up his axe.
“But…how?” Aust asked. “Just a second ago, he was…?”
“Uhm—I’m really sorry for stabbing you, Mr. Tooth,” the Half-Elf added.
The resurrected warrior passed them both without a second glance. Instead, he marched to Ryld.
“The duel is forfeited,” he said. “Yet my original offer still stands. Tell me the crystal’s whereabouts and I will leave you in peace.”
“No, I’ll kill you. I’ll kill you as many times as it takes.” Ryld readied his blade and screamed, “you killed my father!”
He charged with abandon. No more gambits or tricks. Just frigid rage.
Grimtooth easily intercepted. He struck Ryld in the knee with the flat of his axe. Bones crunched as the Dark Elf crumpled. He remained upright only by shoving his sword into the earth and propping himself against it.
“This is your last chance. Where is the crystal?”
Ryld grimaced, struggling to stand. Every fiber of his willpower mustered to keep fighting. But his body had reached its limit.
He cursed under his breath. “We found it exploring some ruins…”
“What happened to it?”
Ryld went silent, waging an internal struggle against either his wounds or his ego. “We hid it…in a cave. A place so noxious, no one would dare enter.”
“Where is this cave?” Grimtooth demanded.
“Head West…stop at the river…then…” Ryld trailed into delirium and slumped against his sword.
Grimtooth knelt, drawing closer to listen. “And then?”
“And then…take off your pants.”
“What!?”
“Take off your pants…squat down…stick your head between your legs and check the reflection in the river.” Ryld drew his face beside Grimtooth’s and hissed. “Because I shoved the crystal up your arse.”
Grimtooth raised his axe. “Such insolence ill befits a warrior’s last words.”
The chime of the blow rang across the entire town square.
Ryld collapsed. His face sank into the dirt as Grimtooth walked away. He ran his hand along his body, shocked to discover that none of the blood seeping into the ground was his own.
But beside him lay Wyrmtalon, shattered into a dozen pieces.
Oh man so brutal. Was that the first time that Ryld called Jonas his father?