As the thunderous footfalls faded into the distance, and Shadowguard and Marchwardens continued to pour into and through the clearing, Eloy turned to Milani, working his role a little harder by entreating her to join him in pursuing the Hammer and killing the orc. She was unconvinced, and as he worked at her, he ran out of time.
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A bright flash announced the arrival by teleportation of four people, At the front was a woman warrior in mithril armour carrying a drawn sword which thrummed with a power perceptible even from the other side of the clearing. Next to her was what was obviously a wizard, still completing the gestures of the Teleport spell. Behind him was a priest bearing the symbols of the Fate god Anladur, and a tall, dark-haired Shadowguard with slightly more insignia than most. After a few moments conversation, the wizard, cleric and the shadowguard vanished again, leaving the armoured woman talking briskly to Milani. She didn't seem impressed with how the Marchwarden had conducted herself in defence of the Elf Hammer, and her mood did not improve when she reached the prisoners, still standing in the little camp.
Lynien eyed the sword she was carrying. I wonder how much that's worth? she pondered, and reluctantly concluded she couldn't judge. More than I think was as close as she could get. Eloy was first to the fore, speaking fluent Elvish and insisting that those here were mere travellers, bystanders, innocent as the day. She lifted a gloved hand sharply to cut him off. "Why are they still armed?" she snapped to Milani. The flustered Marchwarden hustled towards the prisoners, turning her body to cut off her view of Eloy. "Don't show me up," she hissed in a whisper, "that's Isithralindė Hawkwing - commander of the Eastern Marches!" She was in such obvious distress that Eloy made no especial fuss about disarming himself. He and Lynien stood for a good five minutes, unsheathing and unbuckling, slowly adding more and more pieces of sharp steel to the growing pile. When they finally finished, Dorian stepped forward and laid his spear down, followed by Weira with a mace and shield. Finally Bog stepped up, and with a big toothy grin at Lady Hawkwing, produced a slightly rusty, jagged breadknife and added it to the top of the heap. Isithralindë stared at him in disbelief. "What in the name of Nodonn is that?" she demanded. Finally she acknowledged Eloy's existence. "You may well be innocent of the crime committed here today," she said briskly, "and you may be as guilty as the glamhoth orc. We'll establish the truth, once my priest gets here, and if you're innocent you will get all your gear back, plus a full apology and be able to be on your way."
Lynien and Eloy looked at each other, ignoring Weira and Dorian who were clearly terrified. Bog was clinging to Lynien and she patted his knobbly hide absently.
The four prisoners were marched out onto the lawn and placed under heavy guard. Milani glanced once at Eloy, but her learned responses to the powerful authority figure represented by Lady Hawkwing were far stronger than his influence at this moment, and she hurried off after the elvish commander, who was muttering things like "An Orc!" and "What idiot let an orc get near the damned thing!" As she strode, shadows flashed across the clearing, and the prisoners looked up sharply. Three flights of ten winged beasts, half eagle half lion, each with an elvish rider armed with bow and lance, tore across the trees and were gone, heading north as fast as they could fly.
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As the Elf Hammer crashed through the trees, stepping down dells and up rises, stepping on the odd cottage, but detouring easily around things it couldn't climb or break, Gorfang was being flung around unceasingly and knew that he stood the risk of a nasty fall if his grip slipped. Unpacking a rope from his pack, he flicked it around the massive metal neck and lashed himself into a rough safety harness, leaving enough room to move.. which turned out to be a wise move.
A quarter of an hour later, a moving shadow caught Gorfang's eye, and he looked over his shoulder. Closing in from behind were more than two dozen winged beasts - griffons - with elves mounted on them readying bows and long lances. The orc settled his feet and nocked an arrow. Here we go, then, he thought, the first wave. He adjusted his position, taking the spirit stance, feeling the flow of threat running between himself at the oncoming foes. None of the riders was significantly more dangerous than the others - no hero led this attack - but of the two halves, the riders were a greater threat than the mounts.
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The airborne force spread out as they approached, forming a whirling ring, above the hammer, circling just out of bowshot. For a moment they orbited, examining the peculiar partnership of the insensate engine striding unstoppably north, and the poised and battle-ready orc, loosely secured to the side of it. Then two on nearly opposite sides of the circle dropped a wing and turned out of the circle to dive in towards Gorfang. He sank three arrows into one of the griffons, but though it emitted a tearing scream of pain it did not change course. The orc tore his swords out just in time as the two griffons hurtled towards him and struck as they whirled past.
His first strike tore into the guts of the first rider and killed him instantly; the second split the beak and smashed the skull of his mount and the tangle of limbs, feathers, blood and guts spiraled down away behind the Hammer to strike the ground with terrible force. Spinning on his precarious perch, he met the second lancer as he arrived and sent him and his steed spinning away dying. Exultation gripped the orc as he stood atop the mighty hammer, invincible, indestructible. Shaking his blood-dripping blades over his head at the circling elves he threw his face to the sky and bellowed the name of his God in defiance.
As he lowered his head, he noticed the other riders had all loosed arrows. He braced himself for their arrival and was rewarded with a metallic rattling as a rainstorm of arrows bounced and shattered against the Elf Hammer's metal skin. The assault was so futile that the massive construct didn't even react. Above, the elves prepared their bows to shoot at Gorfang again as two more lancers swung out of line to dive at the orc.
Slowly, in whispered Selasht, Lynien and Eloy drew their plans together for their escape. Between them they had several tricks available to play. Settling on their choice, they went into action. Calling on his god-given power, Eloy disappeared into nullity and from all memory and perception of the occupants of the clearing. He sprinted lightly through the oblivious guards and into the trees, heading for the campsite.
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Once there, he swiftly gathered his and Lynien's backpacks, stuffed as many of the loose weapons as he could into them and slung them on his shoulders, then scooped up the rest of the weapons - leaving Dorian and Weira's - and turned back. With two backpacks on and half a dozen assorted weapons balanced in his arms he wisely decided to walk back to where Lynien was standing with Bog clinging to her leg, puffing slightly under the weight; he still hadn't recuperated completely from the effects of the Invigilator. Shifting everything so that it was looped around him, or leaning on him, to clear his arms, he dug out one of Lynien's scrolls of Teleport without Error. Slowly, and with great care he read the words, his ta'nara abilities translating the words of magic script for him. Then he incanted the words of the spell, the nullity still protecting him from being seen or heard. As the last words tumbled from his lips, he dropped his hand onto Lynien's shoulder.
With no warning or expectation, the world went blue for Lynien....
Three more griffons converged on Gorfang. The blinding speed of their attack overwhelmed even Gorfang's defences, and his blood flowed as a massive beak tore at him and claws slashed. Meeting the attacks head on, he killed the first pair, then cut the mount out from under the second lancer, who plunged earthwards with a terrible scream, still strapped to his beast. The third pair's swoop wounded him again, but he slew the rider and wounded the griffon which spiralled away and out of the fight.
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He glanced up and spied the remaining Skyguard preparing bows. Swiftly pulling a bottle of Boom Boom from his belt, he gulped the contents down as quickly as he could, then swung his shield off his back and hunkered down into the angle between the Elf Hammer's shoulder and neck, covering himself with his shield as much as possible. The whistling rush of more than three score arrows filled his ears and then shaft after shaft was thudding into the wood of the shield and smashing against the metal of the construct.
Finally it was over, and Gorfang unfolded himself. More blood was runnelling down his body, but he straightened, reached across the front of his shield with his khopesh and sheared off the dozen or so shafts that jutted from it. Then he turned and presented his green backside to the elves in the universal gesture of utter contempt for an enemy.
This final insult was too much for the Skyguard. With yells of fury, four griffons whirled out of the sky towards Gorfang, their riders poised to attack.
Shamlakh loped through the woods, following the trail of the Elf Hammer with contemptuous ease. The hurtling airborne elves hadn't interested him much, but what he came on a few minutes later was far more to his taste. A trail of slashed, smashed griffons and dead and dying elves. Food from the heavens. Gorfang could take care of himself - especially if he was going to pass up a perfectly good warg for a ride on a tin thing - Shamlakh would get there in the end, and better for a good meal. Screams rang briefly through the forest, and rather later, a distinctly heavier warg sauntered dyspeptically onwards, burping occasionally.
With a slight foop of displaced air, Lynien and Bog appeared in the audience chamber where they'd first met Skufruss. The sun slanted through the windows, making sparks of the lazy dust particles and glinting off the uniforms of the dragonarmy guards ranged along between the columns. Apart from them, the place was deserted, and although they were alerted by the sudden appearance of two people, they didn't appear concerned. Perhaps it was the rather obvious empty sheathes and scabbards hanging from Lynien's belts.
Standing nonexistently next to her, Eloy reflected on the very faint musical ping he'd heard as they appeared. While teleportation into here was not blocked, it was definitely not unobserved. As Lynien began the process of explaining who they were to the guards, Eloy's nullity wore off and he appeared next to her in the middle of a large heap of backpacks and weapons.
Ten minutes later, Skufruss walked in, accompanied as ever by his monolithic bodyguard Kenric Blackstorm and a number of courtiers. Eyeing the trio, he arched an eyebrow. "I assume you succeeded," he commented. "Did you take casualties?" Lynien shook her head. "The orc and the Hammer - the freeing of which you paid a bargain price for - are walking out of Belamir, pursued by the elves," she explained. "Is there anything you can do from here to help him?" Eloy asked. Skufruss shook his head. "If it walks home, it will look as if I simply waited for my property to come back. If I or my forces intrude into Belamir - or even New Tellare - there might be a premature war. All we need to do is wait."
Eloy next explained to Skufruss about Milani, worrying that she might be compromised among her people and wondering if she should be extracted. The Lord of Dragons disagreed here, too; "If her commitment to your cause is weak, abducting her would only shatter what hold you have. If she wants to change her aliegance enough to extract herself, that will be a good proof of her dedication. If she fails, well, she's not up to it. However, you may consider that she's best placed of all right where she is. A finger of Chaos silently placed into the centre of the most lawful place in Alair? Her effect there, over the long term, could be the most valuable of all." Eloy subsided, silenced by the steel-trap workings of that genius mind, and the guests bowed and left Skufruss.
At its' normal walking pace, the Elf Hammer was expected to cover the seven hundred and twenty miles to Vorsand in a little under three days. Eloy and Lynien had some time to kill, therefore, and separated to take care of various tasks. Eloy retired to the privacy of his guest room and prayed industriously to Sabath to strengthen the effect of the corruption they'd brought to Milani; Lynien went for a long soak in the bath.
The four griffons were dangerously close to each other as they tore through the air towards Gorfang, and he braced himself, rather hoping for a collision. Their aerial skills were better than that, though and they converged at different rates on his postion. Drawing on the power of Hektis, he took control of the fight and ducked under the razor-sharp lances, striking right and left to smite two pairs out of the sky. The third beast raked its claws through his flesh before he slew it, and the last turned to escape, too slowly; he took it from behind and sent it spinning down after the others.
Above, the remaining score or so lost heart. Exhausted and demoralized by the heavy casualties, they broke their orbit of the Elf Hammer and turned back towards Belamir.
Feeling frustrated by his lack of success with Milani, Eloy wandered up the red-light district. In the whorehouse called Ippaura's he found what he was looking for, and enjoyed it with enthusiasm; so much so that he was obliged to pay a bit extra for minor medical treatment for the girl afterwards.
Lynien followed the thiefsign until she located the city's guild; tucked against the back wall as far Downslope as it was possible to get and - to her disgust - next to the tannery. The rough and competent guards on watch outside quizzed her carefully as to whether she was here to register, or 'pass the test'. "I haven't stolen anything in this city," she responded. They nodded. "You've passed part of it already," they commented, and one guided her in to the Daymaster, Milas.
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This worthy was half-asleep with his feet on a desk and his hat over his eyes, and paid no real attention until he heard a female voice. Then he looked up, and saw Lynien. Slowly his eyes widened, and he sat up straight. "Who are you?" he asked. "Lynien Savanoth," said Lynien. "I thought so," said Milas, "your description has preceded you. The Guild in Lossal is - was - allied with us. Partly thanks to you, it probably will be so again. Your membership there is current here; welcome."
Lynien decided to explore some possibilities. "Lord Skufruss told me I wasn't allowed to visit any of his treasuries," she said, some of her disappointment showing in her voice. "I should think not!" came Milas' instant reply. "The conditions on which the Guild survives in Vorsand include an absolute hands-off for the Mageguild and Tower." He paused. "Not one of us has failed to dream of those treasuries, though," he added dreamily.
Gorfang peered ahead, shading his eyes. The Hammer was marching through a wide, shallow valley towards a river-carved exit a hundred yards across. Spanned across it was a line of defensive wooden stakes. Behind that was a row of Marchwarden bowmen, placed and ready with goose-feathered arrows driven into the ground to hand. A bowshot further back from that were three elves, standing calmly waiting; what looked like a priest of some kind, a female wizard, and a shadowguard.
Gorfang drew his blades.
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