Homeward (Ch. 27)
[Serial] The Orcs charge forth, Abbadon hits the hay, and help finally arrives.
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
Part 3: Armageddon: Chapter 25, Chapter 26
Stuck in bandit captivity, our heroes reunited with Ryld and Abaddon’s one-time cellmate, Doreff the Dwarf. The Orcs, nominally working for the bandits but still bound to Ryld through an oath of brotherhood, promised to return at sunset with weapons an allies to mount an escape. Now, they wait, nervously wondering whether help will come and what form it will take.
Ryld stirred as something crashed into the barn wall. Had he really fallen asleep out here? His body must have reached its limit after everything he’d been through since last killing a dragon, dueling Tobias Grimtooth, and losing his—No, there was no use dwelling on any of that. He just hoped the others hadn’t noticed him drift off.
“Brother Ryld! Brother Ryld!” Hrothgar kicked open the door. The twilight was blinding after spending so long in the dark. “We’ve gotta get ready. The bandits are coming!”
“What?” Ryld asked as the Orc cut their bindings. “When did they discover you’d switched sides?”
Hrothgar scratched his nose. “Just now when I smashed the guard’s head against the wall.”
“Why did you do that? We were supposed to sneak out.”
“Uh—we were?” Hrothgar asked.
“Why else would I ask you to come when they changed shifts?”
“We thought it was because you wanted to fight both at the same time.”
Ryld groaned. “Did you bring weapons at least?”
“Oh yeah, I got you covered.” The Orc upended a giant sack at their feet. Rusted iron clanged as the arms spilled onto the floor in a pile. Shoddy but functional. Probably leftover stock from the town blacksmith that the bandits didn’t bother to pilfer.
“Damn,” Ryld said. “No swords.”
“Sword?” Doreff asked, waddling over to examine the haul. “What happened to yer Wolf Pecker?”
“It’s Wyrmtalon. And it broke.” Ryld grabbed a hunting bow and quiver of arrows. Then he stepped toward Abbadon, who’d climbed the roof beams to look through a crack near the ceiling. “See anything?”
“Six bandits circling the barn,” Abbadon replied. “It’s those fake Imperial Watch guys from the mansion.”
Ryld gritted his teeth. Six sounded too optimistic given the size of the force that had marched into town. The three of them were still the best lead Grimtooth had on that crystal. He wouldn’t just leave them here guarded by such small shifts.
Creeping to the door, Ryld snuck a peek outside. The bandits were approaching slowly, observing all exit points as they encircled the barn. Then, he spotted the rest, hiding in the treeline. Leathery faces with beady black eyes. All with sleek longbows at the ready.
“Hobgoblin archers,” Ryld said. “They’re trying to flush us out to pick us off with arrows.”
“Then shouldn’t we stay inside and let them come to us?” Aust asked.
“That’s fine until they set the barn on fire,” Ryld replied. “No, we wait until they surround the barn and then burst out when they’re too widespread to block us. We’ll charge at the Hobgoblins and hope they don’t hit us first. Big man, hold this door shut until we’re ready.”
“You got it,” Hrothgar said.
“Oh, and did you convince anyone else to fight alongside us?”
“We got the very best,” Hrothgar replied cheerfully. “Brother Bruteclaw is bringing them now.”
“Swell. I’m going to check the cellar for anything else that can help us.” Hopefully, that farmer owned a sword.
Ryld opened the hatch leading below. The farmer had dug a massive basement that stretched farther than even his dark vision could see. The walls were lined with jars of pickled and fermenting crops. Probably some of the latter flaunted the Empire’s prohibition laws. The Orcs would appreciate that.
Red eyes appeared before him, followed by the growl of angry hounds.
“Crap. Crap. Crap.” Ryld turned heel and scrambled up the stairs. He slammed the hatch door shut as hard as he could, breath faltering and his pulse triphammering.
“That was quick,” Aust said. “Did you find anything?”
“It was…empty.”
The Dwarf gave a knowing chuckle and tugged on his beard. “Empty, eh?”
Ryld snarled. “Just keep it to yourself, old man.”
He went to check on the others’ preparations. The second Orc had arrived, although the reinforcements he brought proved as underwhelming as his brothers’ weapons.
Two familiar members of the Imperial Watch stood at the ready.
“Reporting for rescue duty, Mr. Ryld,” Stanley said. “It was real easy getting in here. All the bandits were dressed like us!”
“Great.” Ryld pinched his brow and turned to the Orcs. “The very best, huh?”
“They might not look it, but they’re tough,” Hrothgar said. “The guy with the moustache said he helped kill a dragon.”
Ryld sighed and shook his head. Next, he checked on Abbadon, who was stuffing hay into his shirt. Red’s breath. He was beginning to miss his old mercenary company.
“What are you doing?”
“Oh, this is an old trick from the circus. You said those Hobgoblins were going to shoot at us, right? Well, we always stuffed our shirts with hay for our knife-throwing routine. For safety.”
“Those arrows will hit a lot harder than a throwing knife. You’re just going to slow yourself down.”
Although his shenanigans had given Ryld an idea. He stepped to the nearest hay bale, drew back his bowstring, and shot at point-blank range. The arrow pierced the bale with a soft swish, but its shaft only penetrated halfway through.
“Hey, Bruteclaw. Can you lift this?”
“Yeah, Boss. Easy peasy.” The Orc spun the bale over his head like a glob of flatbread dough.
Ryld permitted himself a shred of optimism. “Okay, we’re going to put you in the front. As soon as your brother opens the door, raise that hay bale above your head like a tower shield. The rest of us will fight in two columns behind him. As long as we stay in formation, the Hobgoblins in the trees shouldn’t be able to hit us.”
“S-sounds like a plan,” Alphonso said with a quavering voice. “S-Stanley and I will guard from the back.”
“That’s good,” Ryld replied. “With the bandits circling the barn, we can expect a lot of them attacking us from behind.”
“Wait, did I say the back? I meant—“
“Okay, let’s fight!” Hrothgar shouted, throwing open the door.
And with that, the battle was on. Judging from the first dozen yards, their motley company fought with something resembling competence. Everyone remained behind cover, while Ryld took potshots with his bow and Abbadon picked off bandits with his arcane bolts. Even Aust, who spent most battles wringing his hands, lent aid by offering a secondary source of cover with his shield.
“Cripes,” Alphonso cowered as three bandits tore from the side of the barn and charged the rear flank. “This is the end.”
Ryld groaned. So much for staying in formation. Those watchmen would become pincushions if they fell too far behind. “Hrothgar, take care of those guys.”
“You got it, Brother!” The Orc fell back. A swift kick sent one bandit sprawling, while he locked the other two by the neck in his massive arms.
“For the Empire!” With the enemies subdued, Alphonso had found his courage. He leapt atop the fallen bandit and beat him over the head with a truncheon. Just like the Imperial Watch to fight at their best when their target was already on the ground.
“We don’t have time to be teaching anyone a lesson,” Ryld said. “Just knock him out or something and get a move on.”
“Alright, but I’m coming back for you, dirtbag.” Alphonso pressed the bandit’s face into the ground. “Stanley, watch my back while I get my manacles.”
“Yes, Sir!” Stanley shouted. But as soon as he stiffened to attention, another bandit sprinted out of the barn toward Alphonso. “Uhm. Sir?”
“Not now, Stanley. I’m trying to tighten these chains.”
The young watchman cast nervous glances toward his allies as the bandit approached—his partner still none the wiser. Hrothgar was still wrestling with the other two bandits. Abbadon had shuffled behind Bruteclaw to refasten snapped twine on the hay bale with his mage hand. Ryld had a clear shot, but he didn’t want to waste an arrow on those idiots.
With a shrug, Stanley took the soup kettle off his head and smacked the bandit in the face. The attacker fell like a log into the tall grass.
Alphonso stood back up, dusting his hands as he admired his handiwork. His satisfied grin became a scowl when he turned to his partner.
“Damn it, Stanley! I told you to watch my back. Why are you just standing with your back turned? With your helmet off no less. I could have been killed!”
“Sorry, Sir,” Stanley replied, returning the soup kettle to his head.
“Let’s move!” Ryld shouted.
This was like herding foxes through a chicken coop. The watchmen returned to the formation. Now, the Dwarf was the only one lagging. He’d just stopped and planted his feet.
“Keep it together, old timer. If you’re having a heart attack out here, I’m not dragging you along.”
“It’s me stonesense. Somethin’s a-burrowin’ underfoot.”
“Burrowing?”
On their left flank, a gaggle of scaly heads emerged from gopher holes. Their hides gleamed the faint sheen of dull rubies, rows of spikes wrapped around their heads.
“Kobolds!” Ryld shouted.
They pressed bamboo shoots to their dog-like snouts and launched a volley of darts. Probably poisoned too, knowing Ryld’s luck. He nocked an arrow and shot, but the little cretins were impossible to hit while half-covered inside the burrows.
“Hrothgar, to the left!”
The Orc spun a few times before spotting the Kobolds. He started a charge only for a dart to strike square in his throat. He dropped to the ground with a loud thud.
“Brother!” Bruteclaw swung around, leaving them exposed.
Ryld raised a hand to stop him. “Stay in formation. We need that cover!”
“I’m okay, Brother Bruteclaw.” The fallen Orc sat up and ripped the dart from his throat. “Actually, it’s helping with my sobriety.”
As the Kobolds retreated to their burrows, Ryld examined the dart. But it wasn’t a dart at all. The Kobolds had flash-frozen hornets to harden them. Their thoraxes swelled and burst with purple ichor. Maybe fed some reagents to strengthen their venom.
“Really?” Bruteclaw dug his blue, leathery fist into the hay bale and pulled a hornet out. Then he popped it into his mouth with a loud crunch. “Yummy! Now, that’s what I call a buzz.”
“Let’s move,” Ryld grumbled. “Those Kobolds could be getting more hornets right now.”
Bruteclaw pressed on in a drunken shamble, forcing the rest of them in the back to weave in order to remain in cover.
“Kobolds, huh?” Abbadon bobbed beside Ryld, scratching his chin. “My old ringmaster was a Kobold. This reminds me of one of his acts.”
Ryld groaned. “Now is not the time for stories from the circus. Those Kobolds could pop out again any—”
“To yer right!” Doreff shouted.
The frontmost kobold swigged something from a pewter jar, scraped a piece of flint across his bamboo pipe, and blew as hard as its little lungs could muster. A gout of flame spewed from the pipe, igniting the haybale.
Ryld examined the scene, aghast. “Did that Kobold…just breathe fire?”
“Yeah.” Abbadon sighed. “That was the act.”
Bruteclaw howled and stomped his feet beneath the flames.
“Oh, no!” Hrothgar cried. “Brother Bruteclaw hates fire. It’s his least favorite element to touch!”
“Just keep it together for a little while longer. The flames on that hay bale haven’t even reached your hands.”
“Not my hands.” Bruteclaw turned around. Smoke was spewing out of his chest. “It’s the hay stuffed in my shirt.”
Abbadon cast his brother a sheepish glance. “Oh. Sorry.”
“Guys, they’re back!” Aust shouted.
The Kobolds reemerged. This time, they’d brought their darts again.
Abbadon leapt to the front, waving his hand in a magical flourish. “I’ve got this one.”
The flaming haybale flew out of Bruteclaw’s hands, held aloft by a mage hand spell. The burning bale slammed into the ground when the next kobold stuck out its head, sending it scurrying back into its hole.
He repeated this process each time a new Kobold emerged. It was like one of those carnival games. The ones Ryld never played because their Gnomish inventors rigged them to be impossible to win. They always cleared out Abaddon’s allowance when they came into town, though. Guess the practice paid off.
Eventually, the burrows filled with so much smoking hay that the Kobolds were forced to flee. They scurried through the tall grass, yipping and barking all the way off the battlefield.
“Wow, Abbadon. Good job,” Aust said.
The sorcerer turned around with a cocksure grin. “They call that a poor man’s fireball back in the cir—”
An arrow screamed from the treeline, striking him in the back. He crumpled to the ground in the fetal position, crying in pain. “Ow! Ow! Ow!”
“Everyone hit the ground!” Ryld shouted.
The tall grass would offer some cover against the archers. Enough to buy them some time, but not much. They were only halfway to the Hobgoblin archers, and Ryld was already running out of ideas.
He grabbed Aust’s collar and dragged him down to stop him from running to Abbadon.
“It looks like he’s really hurt,” the cleric said.
“He’s alive enough to moan,” Ryld replied. “If they get you, then we’re all goners.”
“A fine mess,” Doreff grumbled, joining them in the dirt. “Tell me I ain’t dyin’ with me nose rubbed in the bloody manure.”
“Manure,” Alphonso replied. “Yeah, that’s—uhm—definitely what that smell is.”
An arrow struck the earth a few yards off. Then another, slightly closer. Then another, even closer. As the Hobgoblins narrowed in on their position, the shots grew more frequent. Like the first few drops of rain before a summer storm. Ryld doubted any of them would survive when the downpour came.
Maybe he owed the Hawk Lord an apology. The hobs probably were worth five regular goblins.
“Uhm…Ryld?” Aust asked. “Remember how you said that when I’m scared I always pray for someone to come save us?”
“Yeah.” Ryld sighed. “You can pray now, Aust. I won’t judge you.”
“Well, that’s just it. I’m not sure I need to.”
The cleric’s gaze was fixed ahead at the Imperial Road between the farm and the tree line. Then Ryld heard it. Clomping hooves were coming from the direction of town.
The rider crested the hill, revealing a knight in full plate armor. Worn but well-crafted. The kind you didn’t see people wear in these parts unless there was a war. And there hadn’t been a war since Sien. The knight wielded flail with one hand, three spiked balls jangling behind him. In the other, he carried a tower-shield bearing the Imperial Crest.
Maybe it was wishful thinking, but it looked like the knight was angling toward the tree line. Charging toward the Hobgoblins.
Ryld furrowed his brow, mouth agape. “Who the heck is that?”