An arrow burst into flames moments after striking Berlan in the chest. The hulking man plucked it out and snapped it in his fist before letting its pieces fall to the ground. He then raised his shield to intercept a pair of rocks that Gronthil had sent hurtling his way.
Darla made use of the distraction to run over and place a hand on the damaged part of Orin’s armour. After a moment she frowned. “The armour has bent into your flesh. I cannot heal you until you remove it.”
“Then healing will have to wait,” Orin said through gritted teeth.
“Attack!” Berlan snarled as he hefted his huge war hammer in one hand. “But Lord Garthan is mine!”
The greenskins shrieked and surged forward when their lord did the same. Orin pushed Darla aside and swung his sword, knocking his foe’s war hammer off course. The move left him open, and Berlan swung his shield. Orin arched his body backwards so that he took the blow in the chest instead of the face and launched himself back to dissipate some of the power.
He rolled backwards onto his feet and sidestepped a strike from the war hammer that left a deep indent in the earthen ground. He could see that a melee had broken out between his companions and the greenskins, but he had his hands full with the man before him and could do nothing to help.
Berlan held out his shield as he approached, which Orin took as a challenge. Seeing red, he swung at it. At the last moment, his foe changed the angle of his shield, causing Orin’s strike to glance off, throwing the warrior off balance momentarily. The dungeon lord swung savagely with his hammer. It was a fast, compact blow, and Orin managed to recover in time to twist his body out of the way. The hammer scored a glancing blow on his cuirass, leaving behind a deep gouge in the thick steel.
Before Orin could launch a counter, Berlan kicked the warrior’s feet out from under him. Orin collapsed in a heap but forced his foe back with a savage swing of his sword as he lay on the ground.
“You’ve spent more of this fight on your arse than on your feet,” Berlan goaded.
The blood rushed to Orin’s head again, and he launched himself at the dark skinned man, raining blow after blow on his shield. Each swing was murder on his sides, but his rage enabled him to keep going. However, unlike before, he was unable to enter a battle trance where he could just channel his rage into swinging his weapon. His blows seemed to glance off the shield, depriving him of any satisfying connection which only served to deepen his frustrations.
Orin learned that his rage fuelled strength had its limits when a tired swing struck his foe’s shield at an awkward angle, jarring his wrists. The warrior slowed by just a hair, but Berlan was quick to capitalize and shoved Orin back with his shield. As he was driven back, the warrior put his shoulder into the shield, determined not to lose this battle of strength.
Suddenly, Berlan stopped pushing, causing Orin to lurch forward. As Orin stumbled, Berlan brought his hammer down. The warrior was able to twist his body as he fell and place his sword in between the hammer and his chest. The impact was still enough to jar his bones. His already broken ribs screamed in agony as the warrior crashed to the ground.
“You always were so easy to lead by the nose,” a familiar voice echoed in Orin’s head. It sounded disappointed and weary. Orin quickly realized it was Derlek’s. Was the Dungeon Master speaking with him, or was he recalling an old memory?
Orin gasped when Berlan brought his hammer down on his sword again and realized the voice was right. Giving into rage had gotten him this far, but he would need his wits if he was to best this foe. As Berlan raised his hammer for a third blow, Orin kicked his massive sword to give him the momentum to be able to swing it upwards.
Berlan leapt back to avoid the blow that would have severed his hands at the wrist, and Orin scrambled to his feet. Berlan smirked and dangled his shield out again. Orin resisted the urge to lunge and took a deep breath to observe his opponent for any openings.
Berlan’s eyes widened in surprise. “What’s this, the mighty Lord Garthan shirking a challenge? How the mighty have fallen.”
Despite knowing it was a trap, Orin swung his sword impulsively at the offered shield and cursed his stupidity a moment later. Desperately, he watched the shield and sure enough, his foe adjusted it ever so slightly. The muscles in his arm screamed as he forced the course of his sword to change so that it met the surface of the shield square. The hit was powerful, shaking the bones in Orin’s arms, and driving his opponent back half a step.
Knowing the hammer blow was coming, Orin recovered quickly and blocked it with the flat of his sword. He placed his left hand behind the impact point to help protect the blade, and to give him more leverage in absorbing the blow.
Before his foe could recover from the surprise, Orin launched a savage strike that struck Berlan in the shoulder, causing a deep gouge in his pauldron. The dark skinned man stepped back, but Orin wasn’t about to let his hard won momentum slip. He stepped forward and drove a thrust towards his foe’s midsection.
Berlan used his shield to knock Orin’s blow off course, but the warrior planted his foot and used it as a pivot to launch a full swing of his sword at his opponent’s now exposed back. His sword struck true, and the force behind the blow sent Berlan stumbling forward. The dark skinned man lashed out with his hammer, forcing Orin back, and preventing him from pressing his advantage.
As the two combatants squared off again, Orin saw fresh blood glistening off his sword. A back wound meant that his foe was unlikely to be able to put his full strength behind his hammer.
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“You’re the first man to pierce this emerald armour of mine,” Berlan said in amazement.
The dark skinned man lowered his shield. Either feigning weakness or challenging Orin to strike at the thickest part of his armour across his chest. Orin saw through the ruse and landed a powerful blow from his left, obliging his opponent to parry it with his hammer.
“Where is your warrior’s pride?” Berlan gasped as he staggered under the weight of the blow. “Striking at your opponent’s weakness instead of his strength!”
Sensing his opponent’s strength was flagging, Orin reached out and snatched the hammer out of Berlan’s hands. The dungeon lord’s eyes widened in surprise as Orin landed a powerful one handed thrust of his sword on his midsection that pierced his armour and then his flesh. Orin looked his foe in the eyes and watched the life fade from them.
“Master, thy work is done,” he gurgled before going limp.
Orin pushed the body off his sword with a contemptuous kick and looked down on its lifeless form. Then, he became aware of the sounds of battle raging behind him. He turned around to see that the greenskins had his companions trapped in the wagon and hefted his sword. The battle with Berlan had left him feeling conflicted and he welcomed the opportunity to clear his head.
Orin threw himself into the ranks of greenskins without warning. Taken from the rear, they fell quickly in the face of his fury. Too quickly, and unwelcome thoughts returned to swirl in the warrior’s head. Chief among them being the voice he’d heard. Had it been an unearthed memory or some form of sorcery?
“Took you long enough to deal with that bugger,” Rus remarked as he hopped out of the wagon.
“Is anyone injured?” Orin asked.
“A few minor scrapes and wounds,” Darla replied as she tended to a nasty gash across Gronthil’s arm. “Nothing to worry about.”
“Since when did you concern yourself with the welfare of others?” Rus asked.
Orin grunted irritably and turned around to see the delvers slowly filtering out of their hovels.
“Here, let me help you out of that so that she can tend to your wounds,” Gronthil offered once Darla finished her spell.
“No, let’s see whose side they’re on first,” Orin said.
“You don’t think…” Darla began.
The woman fell silent when the young man from earlier approached beaming broadly. “That was well fought. When can we expect the rest of good King Horvald’s army to arrive?”
“I’m afraid I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Orin said bluntly. “We’ve not seen any sign of them.”
The young man swallowed uncomfortably. “But you came from the Forest Lake… They told us the king’s army was pushing them out of that level.”
“Perhaps you’ve been lied to,” Orin shrugged.
The man’s lip quivered. “But what… why would they…”
“The king’s army isn’t coming?” another decrepit delver wailed. “But the second master is dead… what if they think we were involved?”
“Back to the fields everyone!” another delver cried. “We’ll get back to work and tell them we had nothing to do with any of this.”
The young man’s eyes turned cold. “I think it’s time you left.”
Orin shook his head in disbelief as the delvers returned to their fields. There were almost a hundred of them, working diligently in the fields, stopping only to look around fearfully every now and again.
At length, the warrior shook his head. “They’ve lost their minds.”
“Aye, it’s curious behaviour,” Gronthil agreed. “Now, why don’t we get that cuirass off so the Princess can take a look at your wounds?”
Reluctantly, Orin allowed Gronthil to help him out of his armour while Rus climbed nimbly to the top of a tall tree in the heart of the square.
“There have to be a dozen towns just like this in the area,” Rus remarked from the top of the tree. “I see plenty of people working the fields, they’re probably delvers just like these.”
“Could they be under some sort of spell?” Gronthil ventured.
Darla shook her head while muttering an incantation. She pressed it to Orin’s wound, and the warrior gasped from the pain. As her chanting grew louder, so did the pain in Orin’s side. He was about to push her away when Gronthil placed a hand on his shoulder.
“That’s just how it is, laddie,” he said. “You have to endure it.”
After a few excruciating seconds, the chanting stopped, and the pain subsided into a dull throb. Darla looked pale and swayed when she attempted to stand.
“You need to rest,” Gronthil said after grabbing her by the shoulder to stop her from falling over. “And we need something to eat. I wonder if they will give us anything…”
“Not willingly, I’d wager,” Rus remarked as he climbed down from the tree.
While Orin examined the jagged hole in his armour, a young man approached them, pushing a wheelbarrow laden with cabbages. When he drew close, the wheelbarrow wobbled, and four large heads of cabbage came tumbling out.
“Watch it,” Orin growled when one rolled into his foot.
Rus rolled his eyes. “He’s giving them to us.”
“Why didn’t he just hand them to us, then?” Orin demanded.
“Plausible deniability,” the lad winked.
“What’s wrong with your people?” Gronthil asked.
The lad paused and shrugged. “We’re prisoners here, it was terrible at first. We were locked in cages and treated worse than animals. No food, no water, locked out in the elements. Then, we were allowed to live indoors and fed three meals a day in exchange for…”
“Obedience,” Orin spat.
The young man broke into a broad grin. “Labour is the term we like to use, but yours isn’t wrong.”
“I saw a few other farms out there, is it the same over there?” Rus asked.
The lad nodded. “As far as we can tell, though the masters don’t encourage mingling between communes.”
“And this talk of the king’s army being close,” Darla said weakly. “Where did you hear that?”
The lad blinked. “From the masters and their servants. They seemed very distressed about it. Are you sure you haven’t seen them down in the Forest Lake?’
Gronthil shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“Oi, Flir, stop talking to them!” someone cried. “The overlords might see!”
“Gotta go,” the lad grinned. “I get the feeling Old Hanley might have been right all along…”
“Where can we find this Old Hanley?” Gronthil asked.
“In the quarry,” Flir replied as he pushed his wheelbarrow away. “Watch out for the Guardian!”
“I think I saw the quarry from up in the tree,” Rus said. “It’s not far from here.”
Gronthil winced when Orin began to hammer the jagged edges of his cuirass flat with the pommel of his sword. “We also need to find a blacksmith to mend your cuirass and look at your sword.”
“There’s a smithy over there,” Rus said, pointing at a small shed built around a rudimentary forge nearby. “Wouldn’t that work?”
Gronthil frowned as he looked at the delvers, who were now watching them with hostile eyes. “I don’t think we’ll find a blacksmith willing to help.”
The hunter’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Couldn’t you do it?”
“I know you tall men think all dwarves are blacksmiths, but it’s simply not true,” Gronthil said good naturedly.
“Then there is no sense in staying where we are not welcome,” Orin declared. “Let’s go pay this ‘Old Hanley’ a visit.”
“Wait,” Darla said feebly before struggling to her feet.
“You should rest a little more,” Gronthil said worriedly as he rushed over to help her stand.
“We can’t just leave this people here,” Darla protested.
“They seem content to stay,” Orin remarked.
“Besides, what would we do if they agreed to come with us?” Rus ventured. “Most of them look like novices and merchants who were captured on the upper levels. Do you plan to lead them all the way to the castle?”
“This is the safest place for them, Princess,” Gronthil agreed.