smashed together and the elf rats threw themselves on spears, impaling themselves and grasping shafts in bloodied, bark-covered claws, holding the spears locked inside their dying bodies to form… ramps… which the rest of the charging force climbed and leapt from into the ranks of the City Guards. Swords slashed left and right, iron clashing with iron, as men and elf rat fought in sudden, harsh, closed battle for the first time in centuries. Heads were cut from shoulders, blades skewered torsos and hearts, livers and kidneys, limbs were cut free, men went down screaming, elf rats went down silent and squirming. Elf rat claws and fangs slashed out, bit and drew blood, and many of the City Guards crawled away from the battle scene, bitten and bleeding and infected.
It was over in a short time.
Sergeant Tilla was the last to die, finding himself in a swiftly decreasing circle of steel and trusted armour. Old Kav went down, sword-cut and bitten to fuck. Llandana, the jammiest bastard in the whole of Vagandrak at cards, bone-dice and Fish Wife Rune Poker, had his throat ripped out and staggered around, unable to scream. Unja lost his eyes, and was stabbed by two elf rats simultaneously through the belly. All these things Tilla saw, and fought on grimly, hacking away hands and ducking low, cutting through legs at the knee. The point of his sword skewered lungs and heart and groin arteries. He kept low, moved fast, seemed hardly to touch the enemy but left a devastating bloody massacre in his wake. Until a spear jabbed out, cutting into his side, lifting him a little. He cut backwards, but a sword blade smashed into his clavicle, breaking the bone, cutting flesh. Tilla gritted his teeth, refusing to scream as he went down under another half-dozen hacking swords.
Sergeant Tilla lay on his back, looking up at the sky brightening with a pretty winter dawn. Everything was suddenly quiet. Snow started to fall, big fuzzy flakes that turned the world hazy. To his left he could see the Old Opera House, ramshackle and quaint, kept alive by enthusiasts and run by obsessives. To his right, was Old Ma’s Bakery, which in his opinion baked the finest meat and potato pies in the whole of Vagandrak.
He grinned, and there was blood on his teeth.
A figure appeared. He was obviously old and moved with great agony, joints crippled, arthritic – if these creatures could suffer arthritis. He wore a cloak of deep brown, interwoven with thin branches of black wood. He moved to stand before Sergeant Tilla, and he stooped, and stared into Tilla’s bright, feverish eyes.
“How many guards do you have, my son?” he asked.
“Who… who are you ?”
“I am Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel, Sorcerer to the Elf Rat King, Daranganoth,” spoke the creature, and pulled a long, silver dagger from beneath his brown robes. “Now answer my question, boy, and your end shall be swift.”
Sergeant Tilla cackled, eyes bright, brow narrowing into a frown. “Go on, fuck you, elf rat.”
“I can make your ending swift and painless!”
“Fuck off! I want it hard and painful; only that way will I get to hunt your kind in the afterlife. So do your worst, you toxic piece of shit. I welcome every fucking second of it. Welcome it, you hear ?!” he screamed.
Bazaroth looked up at the elf rats. “Move on. Progress. Kill and conquer. Take the city,” he said, and the elf rats moved on over the corpses of the slain city guards. Then he looked down at Sergeant Tilla, with something akin to pity in his ancient, bark-woven face.
His black bark lips seemed to writhe for a moment. Then Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel gave a modest smile.
“Our final moments will be intimate,” he said, and seated himself cross-legged beside the wounded body of Sergeant Tilla. “I will give you what you ask for.”
It took Drakerath, the capital city of Vagandrak, two days to fall. The fighting was vicious, bloody, and relentless. Finally, the city gates were closed and the city itself
It was over in a short time.
Sergeant Tilla was the last to die, finding himself in a swiftly decreasing circle of steel and trusted armour. Old Kav went down, sword-cut and bitten to fuck. Llandana, the jammiest bastard in the whole of Vagandrak at cards, bone-dice and Fish Wife Rune Poker, had his throat ripped out and staggered around, unable to scream. Unja lost his eyes, and was stabbed by two elf rats simultaneously through the belly. All these things Tilla saw, and fought on grimly, hacking away hands and ducking low, cutting through legs at the knee. The point of his sword skewered lungs and heart and groin arteries. He kept low, moved fast, seemed hardly to touch the enemy but left a devastating bloody massacre in his wake. Until a spear jabbed out, cutting into his side, lifting him a little. He cut backwards, but a sword blade smashed into his clavicle, breaking the bone, cutting flesh. Tilla gritted his teeth, refusing to scream as he went down under another half-dozen hacking swords.
Sergeant Tilla lay on his back, looking up at the sky brightening with a pretty winter dawn. Everything was suddenly quiet. Snow started to fall, big fuzzy flakes that turned the world hazy. To his left he could see the Old Opera House, ramshackle and quaint, kept alive by enthusiasts and run by obsessives. To his right, was Old Ma’s Bakery, which in his opinion baked the finest meat and potato pies in the whole of Vagandrak.
He grinned, and there was blood on his teeth.
A figure appeared. He was obviously old and moved with great agony, joints crippled, arthritic – if these creatures could suffer arthritis. He wore a cloak of deep brown, interwoven with thin branches of black wood. He moved to stand before Sergeant Tilla, and he stooped, and stared into Tilla’s bright, feverish eyes.
“How many guards do you have, my son?” he asked.
“Who… who are you ?”
“I am Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel, Sorcerer to the Elf Rat King, Daranganoth,” spoke the creature, and pulled a long, silver dagger from beneath his brown robes. “Now answer my question, boy, and your end shall be swift.”
Sergeant Tilla cackled, eyes bright, brow narrowing into a frown. “Go on, fuck you, elf rat.”
“I can make your ending swift and painless!”
“Fuck off! I want it hard and painful; only that way will I get to hunt your kind in the afterlife. So do your worst, you toxic piece of shit. I welcome every fucking second of it. Welcome it, you hear ?!” he screamed.
Bazaroth looked up at the elf rats. “Move on. Progress. Kill and conquer. Take the city,” he said, and the elf rats moved on over the corpses of the slain city guards. Then he looked down at Sergeant Tilla, with something akin to pity in his ancient, bark-woven face.
His black bark lips seemed to writhe for a moment. Then Bazaroth aea Quazaquiel gave a modest smile.
“Our final moments will be intimate,” he said, and seated himself cross-legged beside the wounded body of Sergeant Tilla. “I will give you what you ask for.”
It took Drakerath, the capital city of Vagandrak, two days to fall. The fighting was vicious, bloody, and relentless. Finally, the city gates were closed and the city itself
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