Chapter Eight
Looking out over the rail of the airship, the elf cleric kept his constant vigil. Grimm, the chief healer of the Reapers of Darkness, rarely slept while traveling. He knew the dangers, even though they had found a way to be out of the water, for also had a few of the pirates that once sailed this part of the sea.
Songbird, the airship, was the fastest boat on the water before it had been converted to fly. Now she was the fastest in the air, even loaded with the entire guild and their equipment. A day before, all the Reapers were spread abroad, until they were called by a talisman each had hanging around their neck. With a flash, they had all been transported to Guild Hall in Sorga, where the leader, a halfling named Erimas, informed them of the situation in Atalmor. All had agreed that they should help, a few even called upon members of other guilds in Sorga and Costil.
This journey was not so bad, only a hundred or so miles from the Sorgan Coast to the Port of Gumlor, and with no wind to offer resistance to the ship. Erimas, stepping over to Grimm's post, blew a short sigh at his friend. This one is always on guard, the halfling thought.
“And if I were not, we might have fewer members in the guild. Be lucky, for I watch for you as much as for myself,” came Grimm's words, reading the thoughts of the guild leader.
“You know that gives me the jitters,” Erimas replied. Grimm smiled, still looking out to the air.
“I at least had more to look at when we were on the water. Up here, it's only clouds and the birds.” Grimm turned to look at Erimas, giving a nod of dismissal. As the halfling walked away, Grimm couldn't help but notice his perpetual limp had been getting worse. The cleric had tried for many months to heal his little friend, and he did get better for a while, but some wounds, he knew, could never fully heal.
Erimas had been caught the summer before in the midst of some of his roguish activities by a rather large minotaur. He was climbing a wall to enter a window when the minotaur caught him. The beast ran him through with extremely sharp horns, piercing the halfling's hip, crushing his pelvis to a pulp. Brought back from the brink of death, Erimas was lucky, however he knew he would never be the same. Grimm thought the halfling may never walk again, though he showed great progress within a week or so.
All of the spells the cleric had to aid his friend were used, and used again, until Erimas finally made him stop. Figuring he was as good as he was going to get, and indeed he was, he did not wish to waste the efforts of his powerful friend. Now, on the airship, the guild leader was limping badly. Perhaps it is the damp air of the sea, Grimm reasoned to himself.
The other members of the guild were bustling about the deck of the ship, sharpening weapons, readying spells for battle, and praying to their various gods. One dwarf, who went by the name Sunuva, was tinkering, working on a small catapult that could be carried by one of the grunts. His orange beard was unruly, singed by many failed experiments. He wore a patch over his left eye, and armor that looked like a patchwork of several different armors. A little chain mail here, a bit of plate there, metal scales in another spot. In truth, this patchwork was merely a skin for his real armor, a mail shirt made from the tough scales of a dragon. Sunuva had lost the end of his left arm while harvesting the scales from a live dragon, but that hardly bothered him, for he made a crossbow that fixed into the socket he fashioned to replace it.
Erimas, watching his men and women with pride, remarked, “Crafty old dwarf, you always come up with something.” He limped over to Sunuva, placing a small hand on the dwarf's shoulder. “Tell me, how will this do anything against a fortified tower?”
“Well,” Sunuva began, “you put a ball of pitch in it, light it afire, and launch. The orcs that Fael will no doubt employ will scatter, giving us a clear path to the walls.”
Erimas, scratching his chin, replied, “We won't be alone, you know. The dwarves of Jire will be in the battle, as well as the elves of Strungvali, and doubtless the army of Caryn will be there as well.”
*******
Willy worked feverishly through the night, beating the green metal into shape. A bastard sword, or hand and a half sword, was longer and larger than a normal long sword, but slightly smaller than the great two-handed swords. It was the weapon of choice for King Tystyl. The man had such strength that he wielded two of them, one for each hand, as easily as most fighters did with a pair of daggers. This one, however, was special. It was being formed from one of the rarest metals ever known. The light metal was stronger than normal steel at half the weight. The dwarf was grumbling and struggling with the hard metal, for this was the hardest he had ever worked on a piece. Not only was the material difficult to form, the dwarf was more familiar with crafting axes and long swords, not this exotic type of sword. Willy kept working, making steady progress.
The hilt arrived from the silversmith, a cross piece in the form of a dragon's snout, befitting the origins of the sword. Finishing off the unique and beautiful weapon, Willy wrapped many layers of leather and fitted a flattened pommel to the end with Tystyl's crest engraved into it.
The sword was nearly finished. All that was left to do was to enchant the exquisite weapon. For that, a wizard and cleric would be needed.
*******
Tystyl was awaiting the return of his messenger to find out how many men he could have march from the city of Caryn. Sitting in Jak's hut, he was going over some maps, beginning to draw up an attack plan. “We can go into Jire-Rey, taking the tunnel from there straight to this mountain,” he said to Jak, pointing to a spot on the map just west of Fael's tower. “There is a colossal cavern just behind the cave opening on the north side of the mountain. By the time he can detect us, he will not have much time to prepare a defense.”
“Do you think we need as many men as we are taking? If we give him less time to get ready, he would not be able to even raise an army,” replied the elf. Just then, another elf knocked on the open door of the hut, holding out a rolled up parchment toward Jak. Jak took the paper, nodded to his friend, and began to read. “Forget I said that, for the western scouts have reported a rather large population of orcs heading out of Gumlor going northwest. Do you know what that means?”
“Means Father was right about needing all the help we can get,” Tystyl looked up to him, taking the paper. “Also means we are less likely to surprise Fael. He may already know what we have coming from overseas.” The king wore a grim expression then, wondering how they would fare against a large army of orcs.
Caryn's army was not very large, had not needed to be, for there had been nothing but peace on Atalmor for more than twelve years, since Tystyl raised an army of farmers to take Caryn back from the Gumlor orcs. The battle was great, but the orcs had been routed so badly that there had not been a single orc attack since. So since there had been no need for excess soldiers, Tystyl had decided to keep the taxes a little lower in the land by thinning down the ranks. Still, with just over a thousand soldiers, and all of them having been trained by Tystyl, Caryn's army was nothing to be taken lightly.
There was a commotion outside, and Jak went to the door to see what was about. “King Tystyl, you should come see this.” When Tystyl joined him at the door, he saw what Jak meant. Up on the hill at the entrance to the valley, the beginnings of Caryn's army was filtering down into the village. Three columns of marching men came in a seemingly endless line, bearing the banner of Caryn.
At the same time, from above, Kemda was circling overhead, carrying Wyrmwood and Lisann. It seemed everything was going smoothly and as planned. When the eagle had landed, Wyrmwood marched over to his son, with Lisann trailing close behind, carrying a long silk-wrapped package. They paused and waited for the army to file in, watching the numbers fill the village.
A large shadow suddenly blocked one of the suns above. Looking up, Tystyl could make out the shape of a large boat. The end of a rope hit the ground in front of Tystyl, followed by a halfling with curly brown hair. When the halfling hit the ground, he limped over to Tystyl, bowed low, and with a flourish of his wide-brimmed hat announced, “Reapers of Darkness, at your service. I am the guild leader, Erimas.”
Tystyl returned his bow. Soon after, the remainder of the Reapers had rappelled down to the ground from the airship, following trunks and chests of supplies. The last one to vacate the ship was a short, thin thin man with a flowing red and black robe and a sack strapped to his back. A staff in his hand and the garb he wore told the king that this must be Adley, the sorcerer that Horlarl spoke of.
Tystyl scanned the scene, pleased with the turnout but still doubting this would be enough to conquer Fael. He had known the wizard for many years, knew the man was a master of strategy. This was going to be no small feat.
Later that evening Tystyl, Wyrmwood, Horlarl, and Erimas were discussing tactics in a large tent erected by the Reapers in the middle of the elven village outside of the city of Strungvali, when Erimas produced an item from one of the many hidden pockets in his coat. “This is an extra-dimensional box. Inside, there is ample room for weapons, equipment, or whatever you'd like to carry.”
Tystyl thought on that for a moment, “I have an idea.”