Arngra - Turn 367

The expletives flow thick and fast from Elentari as he hacks the crow down out of the air, as it tries to flap away from him, and he stamps upon it repeatedly. Arwen wastes no time and beams out the mental message for everyone to watch for crows or similar creatures. “If spotted,” he mentally growls, “destroy them instantly!”

Theodurus, having seen the Call Lightning descend from the sky, rushes up onto the battlements to where, what cannot even be recognised as Sabina, lies. The body is little more than charred remains but he is not going to be beaten. Laying a hand on the smouldering charcoal-like chest he continually calls up the miracle of Regeneration but with the flesh more akin to charcoal, the power has little effect. It is like trying to turn the remains of a campfire back into a living tree and he ends up frustratedly shedding tears over the body.

Gavro is not hanging about on the battlements after seeing his fellow mage destroyed and as he heads down the steps he is grabbed by Arngra who tells him, “Make both of us Invisible and takes us back to the rear of the enemy!” The mage quickly stores five blinks into his staff before then complying with his chieftain’s request.

Kevin looks across the wounded members of Deathurge Unlimited and Vox Populii gathering about him and casts the Teleport spell. He follows this with a Blink that transports them all in an instant back into their base and the Chamber of Crystal Healing.

“This lot is going to hell in a handcart!” Nightingale observes, shaking her head, her foot tapping impatiently, always a bad sign. “Perhaps we should help,” she adds, the words of K'nor still sharp in her mind, but sharper still, the words of the child. An amazing thing is guilt. Pushed on you from the day you are born and you can never push it away until the day you die. At least that is how it feels to a K'norian.
 
“Frazarak,” she says turning to the man of steel, “kindly ask the knight who wears the Helm of Life to join me at his earliest convenience.” As he clanks away from her she calls after him, “No stopping off on the way to tidy-up, eh?” Looking back to the others she asks where Gisli is.

The priestess is back amongst the wounded with Xenophan and as far as the others can see, she looks to be giving words of comfort to the worst of the injured. In reality, she is telling them how damned they are before putting them out of their misery with a well-placed dagger.

“Gisli!” calls out Nightingale. “Over here girl. Time we started getting some proper undead defences organised around here.”

Gisli looks straight into the eyes of the seriously wounded man she is hovering over and tells him, “Your lucky day, I’m being called away.” Leaning into him she hisses as she licks his ear, “But I’ll be back!”

“You must set to it with a will,” says Nightingale, “and keep these foul creatures off our backs while the work is done!”

She touches her fellow priest’s forehead and starts blessing her in the name of K'nor. As she does, so smoke starts to rise from where her fingers rest on the skin of Gisli who pulls her head away with a yelp and growls, “Keep your hands to yourself!” Gisli then rubs the burnt skin and starts curing herself, refusing to let Nightingale try and touch her again. “I’ll deal with the undead in my own way,” she tells her before calling Magnus over and grudgingly healing him up. The mage is happy to have his health restored and doesn’t notice the look in Gisli’s eyes which see him as simply a useful escape route out for her.

“Oh yes,” Zalor continues to moan as they run, “really great plan!”

To his surprise Alaric quickly stops and turns about to face the four mercenaries who continue to push through the horde after them.

Giving them a brief glimpse of his sword, he grins at them as evilly as possible, which for a K'norian has a slightly comical air about it.

As they get within earshot, he declares, “If you mention one word of what I spoke about almost for certain two of you will feel the anger of my sword and get to see your maker early... understood?”

Zalor, realising that he is going to have to back up his chieftain, appears behind him vigorously nodding his head and sneering at the mercenaries as he utters the words, “So keep quiet and we may all yet stay alive that much longer!”

The mercenaries look at one another and keep moving towards the two, the mean looks on their faces still firmly fixed. “I think we should keep going,” says Zalor nervously and both he and Alaric resume quickly walking in the direction of Huzarnak, making every effort to leave the mercenaries five yards or so behind them.

“What is it!” demands Sir Menathim, who has been brought to Nightingale by the persistent nagging of Frazarak, “I’ve got men to organise!”

Nightingale looks deep into his eyes, using some of her power as she does so. “I know a little girl that is depending on us… please hand the Helm of Light to me.” Sir Menathim receives the vision of the little girl asking about her father and the power also gives him the impression that Nightingale is a very good person to whom the Helm rightfully belongs.

“I sense this is yours,” he says as he removes the Helm from his head and hands it to Nightingale with an air of reverence.

Donning the Helm, Nightingale takes a very deep breath and letting out the air, she starts to assume Lightform. Her body becomes celestial light and those that see the transformation look on with awe as she rises up into the air. Her eyes of light look out across the warriors within the fortress battling to defend it but she is unable to see the bright glow of the Sword of Light…

Far from her eyes, the Sword is in the scabbard of Arngra who is taking the Dragon Calling Device out from his backpack and laying it on the muddy ground near the ruined wagons. Despite their invisibility, Gavro is looking nervously about as his chieftain re-activates the device which starts to throb and give off its diaphragm shaking, deep bass ‘thump!’

“So you see,” says Ogre to Thorkell, “that Nightingale you hold so dear, led V’garnians into our sect base and helped destroy the place and all the inhabitants, including friends of ours. That’s why we are not fans of the High Priestess!”

“Incoming!” yells Thor and Ogre and Thorkell turn their attention back to the job in hand.

The great skeletal dragon is a bladder weakening sight, its sheer size loosening the screws of even the strongest resolve.

It is swooping down towards the castle and the walls where Arngra was previously stood and where Swords of Lightning, Terra Firma and Ogre have taken up positions.

“Hold your ground!”

It is the voice of Lord Stephal who is coming up the steps to join them, Xenophan having fully healed him of the injuries he has thus far received.

 “We weren’t going anyway,” says Gavro with great bravado.

There is a thunder crack as from the raised finger of Magnus rushes a bolt of lightning that streaks through the air and smacks into the side of the beast’s chest to make a blackened mark to one of the great ribs.

Knights have started launching arrows at the thing which delivers a terrible shriek, not from pain but for inducing fear into its prey.

The beast is almost upon them when its head suddenly turns as if something has called out to it. Adjusting its wings it soars up just before it reaches the walls and turns in the air to start heading back out over the horde.

“Out of my way!” declares Alaric as he pushes past soldiers to get near Huzarnak, “I have an important message from one of the skeletal ones for our chieftain!”

He can see that Huzarnak is a grizzled bearded warrior, his hefty muscular figure covered in a mixture of metal armour and furs. On his back is strapped a pair of battleaxes whilst at his side is a sword and across his chest a row of throwing daggers. He is sat astride a black warhorse with white streaks in it’s mane and which has a pair of bulky saddlebags led across it. As for bodyguards, it doesn’t look as if he has any though there is an equally grizzled fighter who seems to stay near his horse and helps in dishing out orders.

As Alaric gets close and Zalor throws a glance back to see the mercenaries who are following them, the sound of a horn can be heard from off across the other side of the horde, then another, and another. Huzarnak seems to grumble something and then starts to shout the order, “Fall back!”

The horde starts to swell in a slow, reasonably well-ordered retreat.

“Erm… Arngra,” says Gavro.

“Yes what is, I’m just making sure the device is upright.”

The mage impatiently taps him on the shoulder and points to behind them where not only is there the dragon flying back towards them, but it seems the horde is all heading in their direction as well…

“They’re leaving!” grins one of the knights on the battlements, “We’ve beaten them!” Others are whooping in celebration. Deathurge Unlimited and Vox Populii have just reappeared back in the courtyard and are surprised by the news filtering down from the walls.

Lord Stephal, Ogre and Galdra watch the retreating forces with less optimism and far greater dollops of suspicion. “I don’t like this,” murmurs Lord Stephal, “they are definitely up to something!”

“That angel has turned them!” shouts another of the celebrating knights, indicating to where Nightingale is hovering in the air. “K’nor has saved us!” shouts another.

Nightingale, like the others feels the celebrations are misguided as she can see the enemy have simply fallen back to the spot from where they began their original charge. It is as if they are regrouping for possibly another mode of attack.

Theodurus, who has been knelt in prayer to T’gellen since his failure with Sabina, continues to beseech his God to aid their cause. Within his mind a voice crackling with the intensity of a thousand fires whispers, “Help comes on fiery hooves.”

“It seems,” hisses the voice of ancient decay, “that we have some unwanted thorns in our sides, giving hope to a hopeless cause. Tides can be turned with hope and hope is probably their most dangerous weapon. Our plans must be changed and their hopes must be crushed…”

After a moment’s pause the voice continued, “Make ready, I will personally lead our force!”

“Is it wise to leave the spire oh glorious master?” grovelled the robed skeletal figure.

“These ‘eyes’ have failed me so far. It is time I was there in person! Let my troops feel my power and let mine enemies tremble at my sight! Go fetch me my scythe…”