The Gods-War

[EbonWolfe]

Prologue

The gods had come only the year before and the crops were still recovering, it seemed. Most fields lay fallow and what was planted... well, it would have been better to have saved the seeds. Even the grass and weeds- usually so plentiful in the regions west of Splintered Earth- had been shocked by what folk were calling the ‘The Gods-War’.

It was the Year of Falling Fire, doomed by the soothsayers at its inception. People went about their lives as if nothing in the world were different- and nothing was different. Life went on with its mundane chores. The spring was no less beautiful and the rest of the year promised abundance in all things. The people rarely listened to the wizards anyway and the portents of disaster held little sway. It seemed a time of sharing and celebration that had never been seen before in the lands of Kaevaresh- the mightiest kingdom on this side of the mountain range called Splintered Earth.

In the winter (the end of the year previous to the Year of Falling Fire), there had been fewer raids from the lesser races; fewer packs of starving wolves; fewer roaming giants to harry the isolated towns on the fringes of the kingdom. It seemed a time of relative peace had settled on the hard land that made up the Kaevaresh where times had always been a trial for the settlers that had risked all to come to a place where they could be as one with nature and the land around them.

Then came The Gods-War. Kaevaresh had been cut off from the rest of the world by the ensuing madness (and the mischance of a collapsed mountain pass) that so many people had written off as nature revolting against humanity itself. Not that the disconnection mattered much. Kaevaresh boasted many natural resources and even a few industries after barely two generations of colonization. They had what they needed to survive and only traded with Marmutt and the eastern cities for luxuries that they themselves did not produce. Harder times than had ever been known had fallen on the people of this distant kingdom and they suffered greatly.

Balorn, the self-proclaimed (but basically powerless) king of Kaevaresh, had withdrawn his meager armies to defend his castle and the surrounding lands. Bands of brigands- usually outcasts from Marmutt and the eastern cities- roamed the roads and were often seen fighting goblins and orcs for the scraps of a waylaid wagon train or caravan. Towns and outposts all over the countryside were beset by the lesser races of goblins, orcs, trolls, bugbears, and various other semi-intelligent creatures that were indigenous to the region. The gods had come to Laerness and the people of Kaevaresh bore the brunt of the war.

It began with a falling star. Streaking across the heavens in a blaze that dimly lit the surrounding land, it chased the setting sun into the west and fell beyond the eyes of even the closest settlers to the mountains. The ground shook with tremors and a great cloud of boiling black smoke poured from the clefts in the Splintered Earth range, darkening the sky in a short time. Night came early to the people of Kaevaresh- a darkness like they nor anyone else had ever seen...

The next day dawned bright and warm with damp clouds hanging low, stretching all the way to the foot of the range. The people of the closest villages to the mountains woke with trepidation to their gray world, but they went about their lives normally and only glanced towards the mountains occasionally. A few of the braver men set out to see what had caused the uproar... none had returned.

Rangers- fearless woodsmen that protected the forests and colonists alike- were called in to survey the disturbance. They set out individually, as is their way being natural loners, and only one returned. They found him astride his near-dead horse, barely alive himself. He seemed to be unhurt, but when the farmers and trappers that occupied the village dragged him from the beast, he was limp and unresponsive. A look of insanity haunted his eyes and he mumbled garbled words- flinching at unseen blows and laughing at silent jokes. They found him one morning in the midwife’s barn, hanging from the rafters by a length of hay rope. He seemed more at peace in death.

A week passed and none dared to enter the foothills. Strange sounds could be heard at night and one trapper claimed to have caught a mutated wolf in a snare. The carcass had melted away on the trip back to the village, or so he said. Human hands were where his front paws should have been and his tail was more of a tentacle- naked skin knotted with muscle and as long as his body. The teeth were sharp- every one- and there were four rows of them, but no one believed him. He was written off as a fool- until the day the giants attacked.

The thick haze had remained during the mornings and nights, never lifting and seeming to give off a luminescence of it’s own. Only after the sun had risen above the tree-studded horizon to the east did the fog raise from the ground. One morning before it had faded enough to see past the villages insignificant walls, howls and deep rumblings could be heard echoing through the homes of the townspeople. The earth shook from the heavy steps of giants, but no one had ever seen more than one giant at a time. The villagers bolted themselves into their houses and awaited what could only be their demise.

The first wave of attack came as wolves dripping blood-tinged foam from their mouths. They ran with a grace that belied the mutations of their bodies. The hands on their forelegs grabbed and tore at the soft earth outside the fence surrounding the village. They ran in a circle just outside the wall, baying and snapping at one another, driving themselves into a frenzy. The giants- some standing fully three times the height of a man- danced and capered about the fields, trampling the crops and roaring laughter at what their simple minds saw as a grand game. One by one the wolves reared and grasped the top of the wall, pulling themselves over and hurling through the streets, slashing and grasping at anyone they encountered. Men protected their families as well as they could, using what weapons were at hand. Some had swords but not enough skill to use them effectively. Others took up spears, clubs, pitchforks, rakes and other makeshift arms. They actually held off the worst of the assault long enough for the women and children to secure themselves in the huts and mud houses that made up the dwellings of the villagers. But the giants had yet to join the fray.

The screams and death-cries from wolf and towns person alike drew the attention of the giants. They approached slowly, their huge heads grinning gap-toothed and nodding as if enjoying a puppet show. With barely an inconvenience, they stepped over the wall and began to join the chaos in the streets. The settlers had little choice but to barricade themselves into their houses and hope for rescue.

It never came.

The evening drew closed on a destroyed village with no signs of life...

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1-A

Fila awoke to the subtle sound of a breaking branch underfoot. She remained still despite her first instinct to reach for the sword lying next to her bedroll and listened intently, barely opening her eyes to slits. With full awareness upon her, she discerned a group of large humanoids quietly threading through the dark trunks of trees surrounding her camp. The fire had burned down enough so that the meager light it cast did not affect her low-light vision and she could pick out the individual forms of what appeared to be five or six ogres moving in on the camp she had laid a few hours ago.

The beasts were unusually large for ogres and they moved with a stealth that belied their large bodies. A few had weapons- clubs and rusty knives- but all of them were dangerous. Fila held her breathing down to the slow rhythms of sleep and slowly moved her hand toward her blade. The Five Attitudes of Battle cycled through her head as she awaited the inevitable attempt to end her life while she slept. One of the ogres crept closer with club raised high for the killing blow.

‘So stealthy!’ she thought, and readied her leg to move underneath her and catapult her to a standing position.

‘One more step....’

She exploded in a flurry of motion, rising to a knee with her other foot placed firmly beneath her and spinning in a lightning-quick slash that disemboweled the ogre before his eyes could widen in surprise. A bellow of anger and pain issued forth from the mortally wounded ogre as Fila continued the circle of her spin, leaped high around the back of her opponent, and sliced her blade through the vulnerable spot at the base of it’s skull. The head lolled forward and fell to the ground, the body close behind.

Now that she was up and could survey the scene fully, she noticed there were nine (now eight) of the smelly bastards scattered about her camp, searching for loot. They had all turned to see the cause of the commotion and were closing in slowly.

“Ok, you giant-spawned dragon piss smelling overgrown goblins, come and get it!” she screamed at the closest two, knowing they wouldn’t understand her but also knowing they would respond to the tone in her voice. She dug the balls of her feet into the soft loam of the forest floor and relaxed her muscles for the whip-like movements that moved her body in a blur.

The closest of the two took another step then halted. He looked back to his companion and waited for him to reach his side before they both advanced on the tall half-elven woman standing defiantly before them.

‘This is too weird,’ she thought to herself. ‘Ogres have NEVER worked together! What manner of beasts are these?’

Fila began to worry for the outcome of this battle. She was confident that she could handle two opponents simultaneously but the other six were approaching fast, having abandoned stealth. Running seemed a valid option but she could not bring herself to accept it so she held her ground. She rocked back and forth on her feet, assuring herself of her footing. Her mind automatically assumed the First Attitude of Battle- There are no opponents, only obstacles; there is no battle, only dance; obstacles will be avoided or removed and dance will flow freely. She felt the tension drain from her mind and it flowed from her body soon after.

Her long, slim two-handed sword wove a pattern in front of her, gently swaying side to side. The ogres slowed, growing more cautious. She realized they were taking the time to let their kin join in the fray and assure a quick victory.

“Fucking cowards!” she screamed at them and dropped her guard, standing straight and making obscene gestures toward the closest two. They could not be taunted. She resolved herself to what needed to be done.

Fila squatted as if she were waiting and surreptitiously grabbed a handful of dirt and leaves. As the two closest ogres approached, she stood and flung the debris in an arc at their faces and moved in, blade whirring, right behind the distraction.

She caught the first one flat-footed and lopped off the hand holding the knife. Knowing he would be out of the fight for a moment, she dove and rolled under the other’s attack, coming to her feet to one side of the beast. A quick slash and he was hamstrung. The leg crumpled and he fell to the ground roaring in pain and fear. Fila leaped and thrust in midair, taking him in the throat and ending his cries forever.

Three of the stragglers had gotten within combat range and she knew the heat was on. Her mind drifted into the precision of patterns that allowed her to see the ebb and flow of the obstacles in her path. She reached to her belt and drew the dagger that she kept there, turned and flung it directly into the other wounded ogre’s eye. He slumped to the ground and there were only six.

She slowly retreated to where she had been sleeping close to the fire, always keeping the remaining ogres in sight. They advanced relentlessly but with a little more caution than the previous ones had. She carefully backed her way around the glowing coals that made up her campfire and there she stood awaiting their approach with the dying embers between herself and them.

Just as they reached the meager light of the fire, she bent forward and quickly dug her blade deep into the coals and flicked them straight at the closest of her opponents. Red hot chunks of burnt wood and ash rained through the night air. Once again she followed close behind, leaping the ring of stones that bordered her fire. The ogre was expecting it though. He brought his club around even as he flinched away from the cinders flying all around him. Fila lost the attack but easily parried the blow. She rolled to the ground and came up behind him, ignoring him for the moment. She leaped and tucked in flight, flipping head over heels and brought her soft-soled boots straight into the chest of the one behind him, knocking him off balance. She pushed off, straightening her body like an arrow, sword held before her and impaled the first ogre through the side as he was turning to confront her. She had a moment of fear as her blade stuck in bone and gristle. Twisting savagely, she wrenched the sword free and the ogre fell in a heap, still breathing- if blood could be called breath- and he was out of the fight.

Steadying her own breathing, Fila walked boldly toward the ogre now regaining his balance. His companions were close behind him but she paid them no mind. She locked gazes with the closest and advanced. Fear and wildness played in his eyes as she shortened the distance between them. He raised his club and bellowed, stepping forward to get his weight behind the mighty swing. Fila also stepped forward and let the club descend over her back harmlessly as she moved in as close as a lover to the ogre. Her steel kissed his neck and she was drenched in blood immediately. He fell back, spluttering and gagging on his own fluids.

She shook her head violently to sling the blood from her hair. The last four had come all together and were shoulder to shoulder- a barricade of stinking flesh and corded muscles. Wiping the blood from her eyes with her arm, she began to laugh.

“Aaaahaaa haaa haa, more than half of you dead and still you come! Seems I have a little more fun for the night! Well, let’s not drag this shit out. Come at me, you dogs!”

She reversed her grip on the sword and let the blade fall behind her hands. Charging straight into the mass, she spun and leaped, crouching in flight. Her blade was a blurred silver streak, never threatening the ogres. Fila’s tactics had changed slightly.

Her plan worked fairly well for being spur of the moment and the ogres began to thrash around themselves, trying to catch the demon that harried them seemingly from all sides at once. One ogre went down in a spray of blood and brains as another’s club connected with his skull, caving it in. Fila leaped into the midst of them and began poking and slicing, doing no real damage but infuriating the beasts into a frenzy of chaos. She darted and dodged with an unreal agility and avoided any injury until one ogre anticipated her next roll and scored a deep cut to her back. She hissed with the pain and rolled away from the melee, coming to her feet with a berserker’s rage upon her.

The three ogres left standing had spread out and encircled her as she had rolled away but she saw none of it- she was in a blind fury. Her breathing had deepened and quickened- sweat drew lines through the blood covering her face. She growled deep within her throat and bared her teeth. The muscles and tendons in her neck and arms bulged beneath the skin. The ogres grinned thinking the battle won.

Fila erupted in movement. The ogres barely had time to register that their deaths were upon them. The half-elven woman screamed at the top of her lungs and charged the one directly in front of her, slashing wildly- completely out of control. The ogre went down with a slash across the face that opened him from ear to ear across the eyes but one of the others had connected a numbing blow to her hip. She turned and lashed out blindly, reacting to the distantly felt pain. The ogre caught the blade across his chest and blood fountained. The other remaining ogre hesitated for only a moment, fearing the hell-spawn before him. Fila had not dropped the ogre with the cut and he shrugged off the pain. She turned and thrust toward the uninjured beast, keeping him away while she limped to one side, attempting to get herself from between them. The unhurt ogre saw her attempt and moved to keep her at a disadvantage. She turned to face him fully, disregarding the bleeding hulk behind her. Her sword swiped side to side as she advanced as quickly as her stiffening leg would allow. Just as she reached closing distance, her leg betrayed her and dropped her to the ground. She rolled to her back and, as the unhurt ogre leaned to finish her off, she took him in the throat with the point of her sword. Stupefaction filled his eyes just before they glazed over in death as her sword slipped easily under his jaw and through the roof of his mouth to lodge in his brain.

She lay back, exhausted and moaning from the pain of the blow to her hip, readying herself for the attack of the last one. It never came. She slowly gathered her wits and rolled to her side, searching for the last ogre. He was nowhere to be seen.

Agony filled her body and mind. She used the skills she had and dampened most of the pain but her body had taken too much of a beating. She raged against the darkness even as unconsciousness overtook her.

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1-B

The dwarf stamped down the road in the early morning light, his heavy boots billowing dust around his ankles. The sun had barely risen but the day was already becoming warm and sweat beaded on the short fellow’s brow. His red beard was damp with it as well, and he constantly pulled at it with one hand. The battered helmet on his head hid most of his hair but strands of it straggled here and there, showing the same hue as his beard.

He was short- barely more than half the height of an average man- and stocky with wide shoulders and stumpy legs. A barrel chest covered in a dented but serviceable steel breastplate held the straps to a worn pack that rested on his back. The pack was rigged to hold a broad-bladed battle-ax within easy reach of the dwarf’s hand. The ax itself was notched and scarred- obviously well-used. The dwarf himself seemed a mirror of his ax- hard and sharp and stoic. He marched on with determination.

A crashing in the brush to the side of the road brought his attention around and he reflexively reached for the ax, drawing it from it’s holder on the pack and swinging it familiarly at his side. He stopped his quick steps and turned to see what fate had brought to him this moment.

The brush parted and a rather large ogre stumbled out to the roadside, staggering and weaving as if drunk. The dwarf readied his ax, noticing the dried blood on the ogre’s body.

“Well, it seems I have the luck of finishin’ ye off me bloody friend,” the dwarf spoke amiably enough, but a cold look came across his face as he advanced. The ax stopped swinging and came up as he grasped it with both hands holding it before him.

“Ye’re goin’ to give me a bit of a fight, at least, aren’t ye? I hate to have things come too easy.”

The ogre appeared not to have even heard the approaching dwarf. He swayed and almost fell, catching himself at the last instant. The dwarf stood fearlessly in front of the ogre, holding his ax at the ready.

“Ye’re bad off, aye? Looks like someone got a pretty good chunk of ye last night... Hell, ye’d be dead in a couple hours anyway. Need some help findin’ yer way?” he goaded, but the ogre was too far gone to hear him.

The dwarf stepped in and swung. His ax bit deep into the beast’s leg and the ogre turned, coming out of his daze. The dwarf ducked a swing of the mighty forearm but caught the foot that was thrown out right in the face. The dwarf flew backwards to land in the roadway, the breath knocked from him. The ogre advanced, a deadly emptiness in his eyes.

“Good, I thought I was going to have to heal ye before ye would fight, ye bloody bastard,” said the dwarf as he gained his feet and his breath quickly. He shook his head and rubbed the place where he had taken the hit, wiping the blood from his lips. “Now for some play!”

The ogre came in swinging, huge fists whistling through the morning air. The dwarf easily ducked the swings and, remembering to dodge the kicks, he waded in and slashed a cut across the beast’s belly, loosing his intestines to lie in a puddle at his feet. He backed away from the near-dead ogre and swung his ax hard to remove the excess blood. The ogre stepped forward and fell flat on his face, tripping over his own guts. The ax bit deeply into the back of the ogre’s head as the dwarf finished him off, cleaving his skull in two.

He wiped his ax on the ogre’s back, removing most of the blood and brains, then set it once again into the rig on the pack. Glancing up and down the road, he walked to where the ogre had exited the bushes at the side of the road and wandered in.

The trail was easy to follow. Blood and gore was splattered everywhere the ogre had been. The dwarf followed the trail cautiously- expecting more ogres to be where this one had come from.

It was nearing high sun when he came upon the clearing full of bodies. Ogres lay everywhere in various poses of death. The stench of death filled the clearing and flies already were buzzing about the bodies of the dead ogres. The fire in the center of the clearing was nothing but barely smoking ashes and he could see the signs of struggle all about the grassy opening in the crowded forest. The dwarf took a quick look around and decided that it was safe to investigate.

He quickly found the half-elf lying in the middle of the ogre bodies. He bent close to see if there might be a holy symbol or some other sign of her faith on her person. As he did, he noticed the rise of her chest- a slow breath drawn in- and he knew she was alive. Hurriedly throwing the pack from his back, he rummaged inside and withdrew his healers kit. It was really nothing more than a few unguents and herbs with bandages and poultices and salves that helped a wound heal a little faster. With all the blood on the woman, it was hard to tell where she was hurt and he needed her awake. He picked out one fouls smelling leaf and crushed it between his hands, rolling it into a small ball which he held under her nose.

Fila opened her eyes immediately. Her hand groped for her sword and she tried to push the stolid dwarf away from her.

“Kill you... bastards...” she croaked through a dry throat.

“Nay, there’ll be no killin’, lass. Ye’ve taken a bit of damage and, the gods only know, dished it out too! Lie still and tell me where it hurts. I be a friend. Kelrag Rockskin’s the name,” the dwarf comforted in a soft voice that seemed incongruous to his appearance.

Fila’s eyes cleared for a moment and she raised her head to stare into the bearded face of the dwarf. Her body relaxed and her hand stopped it’s searching.

“Fila... Trollsbane... my back... my hip... hurts... my sword...” She let her head fall back to the ground and closed her eyes.

Her face was a grimace of pain- a rictus mask of sweat-streaked blood. Kelrag lightly patted her shoulder and cast about for the sword knowing how naked a fighter could feel without a weapon at hand. He found it lying a few feet from her. A beautiful slender blade of elven make with jewels in the pommel and soft doeskin wrapping the hilt. The steel was of the finest in the land and showed not a single scratch or notch though the wear on the hilt showed much use. Kelrag brought the sword to her and set the hilt within her hand. Her fingers immediately closed about it and she sighed deeply.

“Lie still, lassy. I need to roll ye to yer side for a moment. May hurt a bit...” Kelrag grasped her shoulder gently and pulled her over to her unhurt side to examine the cut that went from shoulder blade to shoulder blade. He tore the slice in the fabric wider and inhaled between his teeth sharply when he saw the white of her ribs and spine showing through the caked and dried blood. The wound had already taken on the fevered look of an infection and he reached for a salve from the kit at his side.

“Seems there’s a bit of a scratch here, lass. I have just the thing fer ye though. Me granpappy showed me a bit about the healin’ arts. I’ll have ye fixed up in no time,” he soothed, though he had his doubts that she would even survive the night.

He cut the tunic from her body and carefully packed the wound with the salve, applying a bandage and leaving her on her side while he rummaged through his pack for a tunic to replace the bloody one she had been wearing. Fila moaned and flinched the whole time he worked at her back. At last, Kelrag was finished with the gash in her back. He began to softly probe her hip, seeking a chipped or shattered bone. All he found was a horrible bruise that would take almost as long to heal as the cut. He picked her up and carried her to her bedroll where he let her rest on her side.

When he had finished, he stirred up the remains of the campfire and threw on some more wood. He took a pot from his pack and filled it from his waterskin, bringing it to a boil and tossing in some herbs. Shortly, an acrid smell issued from the pot and he poured a bit in a cup and took it to Fila.

“Here, drink this, lassy. It’ll do ye good- kill the pain and all that,” he instructed the wounded half-elf.

Fila drew her head back as the smell of the cup’s contents filled her nostrils. Kelrag held her head up and brought the cup closer again.

“Come now, lass. It isn’t as evil as it smells, I assure ye. It’ll help ye sleep and ye be knowin’ that’s what ye need the most.”

Whether from lack of strength to resist or from the dwarf’s calming voice, Fila finally drank and a peaceful look came over her face as she drifted off to sleep.

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[heinzs]

[Keith1297]

i like this kind of reading. are you a professional writer? with those adjectives and the flow of the story is very smooth. great story