Douglas Niles - Lord of the Rose

“Magic! I’m stuck to the floor!” Dram snarled in rage, snatched his axe from its belt strap, but he couldn’t decide whether to hurl it-the high priest was too far away to be sure that he could strike him. “Damn your greedy god anyway!” he spat.

The human warrior, on the other hand, drew a deep breath and collected himself before calmly turning around, his feet gliding smoothly over the floor. “Duke Crawford has no power in Garnet,” he said.

The patriarch glared indignantly. “You blaspheme the Balance of the Scales! He will, soon enough. Though you’ll have breathed your last before then!”

The intruder calmly sheathed his great sword and drew out one of the small crossbows that he wore at his belt, concealed beneath his cape. With a measured crank of his hand, he cocked the weapon.

“Cease!” cried the high priest, his fingers splayed in a gesture of command. “Drop your weapon.”

The warrior raised the crossbow, siting the weapon on the massive round target of the golden billowing robe. “Release my friend,” he said calmly.

“I command you both to remain!” shouted the cleric. “My power rules here!”

The clunk of the crossbow’s firing mechanism was the last sound he was fated to hear. The high priest groped at the dart that pierced his chest, looking in disbelief at the crimson rose-dyed in blood-that spread across his sacred garment. He collapsed with a groan.

The power of his spell was broken in that instant, and Dram stumbled free. “How did you get away from his magic?” he demanded of his companion.

The warrior pulled off his left glove, revealing a golden ring that glowed on the middle finger of his left hand. “A gift-from a lady who knows a thing or two about magic.”

The dwarf nodded knowingly as the warrior was already hurrying toward the door.

“Time to go,” the swordsman said. “This town is getting too religious for me.”

In the years of the Dragon Overlords Khellendros and Beryl, the savage tribes dwelling in the Garnet Mountains were hard pressed to find sustenance. The hobgoblins disbanded their great clanholds to scatter into the heights. Eating grubs and roots, they considered themselves lucky to discover such provender. They survived primarily through raiding, inflicting terror on many of the human settlements skirting the fringe of the range, pillaging from the hill dwarves with the aid of their teeming goblin lackeys. These raids inevitably led to reprisals from the Solamnic Knights, whose patrols drove the raiders higher and higher into the mountains.

One such band of hobs was captained by a former veteran of Lord Ariakan’s, a surly brute by the name of Bonechisel Hobgoblin. Despite the ferocity of his warrior followers, Bonechisel had not found easy pickings during the overlord years.

Bonechisel’s mate was named Laka. She had once been a comely wench-for a hobgoblin. In fact, it was her beauty that had drawn the chief’s attentions. She had been mated previously to a young warrior, but Bonechisel secured a divorce for her by the simple expedient of bashing his rival’s head until the poor fellows brains had run out and pooled upon the ground. The chief had stepped over the mess, taken Laka by the wrist, and informed her that now she was the chief’s woman.

After several years of rudimentary efforts on Bonechisel’s part, Laka had given birth to a son. Born at the very onset of winter, the infant was sickly and small, though the hob female attended to her tiny charge with all the diligence and care that one could hope for from a member of her brutish, savage race. Whether from malnutrition or simply the early onset of winter’s dampness and chill, the suffering little hob perished in the second week of its short life.

Bonechisel took no note of the fact, and Laka sadly laid the little corpse to rest in a mossy alcove beside a flowing stream, the only place where deep snow didn’t cover the ground. Not far away in the snowy wilds, the chief shivered, gloomy at the prospect of another long, cold season of hunt and roam.

He caught a tantalizing scent on a waft of wind, which bore a promise of warmth, comfort, and shelter, for it smelled of a fire of pine wood. Emerging from the forest, Bonechisel found the scent of smoke even stronger. The vapors emerged from the chimney of a small cabin, wafting upward, bearing hot red sparks on the winter wind. In those glowing embers Boneshisel saw doom for whomever skulked within the cabin and fed that alluring fire.

Bonechisel lifted his axe, which, though crude in the extreme, boasted a heavy chunk of sharp-edged granite for its blade, mounted securely atop a cudgel that was as thick around as a strong man’s arm. He flexed and swung, crashing the stone head into the boards. Two blows were enough to make a crack, and three more swings shattered the door into two halves. One half, attached to leather hinges, still clung in place, while the other piece toppled inward to crash on the dry stone floor.

Bonechisel growled as he stepped through the entrance. Laka followed close behind him, pressed by other warriors, three or four more hobs and goblins each brandishing a heavy club of their own.

The first thing the hob-wench noticed was the warmth, a splendid blanket of moist, slightly cloudy air that surrounded her. The taint of smoke in the shelter was a welcome scent, and the low light cast by the embers fading in the fireplace was a pleasant welcome after the unmitigated gray-white of winter’s first storm.

The second thing to draw Laka’s attention was the small cradle, lined with furs, resting over on one side of the single chamber. She took no note of the huge creature seated at the table, the giant who still cradled his head in his hands, so lost in despair that he hadn’t yet noticed the intruders. Carefully, the hob-wench sidled toward the cradle, drawn by an instinct deeper than her race. She heard the plaintive cry, and her breasts began to leak their milk.

Bonechisel, for his part, was fully aware of the giant seated at the table in the middle of the room. He had been prepared to rush in and attack the denizens of this shelter. Deep in his heart he had hoped they would be humans, preferably defenseless women and children, but he had steeled himself to fight goblins, hobgoblins, a knight or two, had even considered the dread thought that he might have to face an ogre. It was a measure of how cold, how frightened he was, that he was even willing to chance the latter possibility.

This! This was such an extraordinary giant!

He gave serious thought to running away. His cunning mind considered the throng of hobs and gobs behind him, and he figured that he could easily pull several of them into the house, knocking them to the floor even as he made his escape. By the time the giant was through smashing those hapless offerings, Bonechisel could be safely back in the woods…

On second thought, this did not seem like an ideal course of action. He well knew how cold those woods were, how snowy and barren. The tribe might survive another night out there. (Actually, Bonechisel himself would probably survive the night; the welfare of the tribe as whole could not be said to be much of a consideration.) But after another night with no food and no shelter, the upcoming days inevitably looked bleak, while the warmth of this stone-walled house was undeniably attractive.

In an instant the hobgoblin’s eyes took in the mountain of firewood stacked against the back wall. In a dark alcove near the back he could see haunches of dried meat, many of them. There was a great bed in the corner, a bed fit for an exalted chieftain such as Bonechisel Hob.

The issue was decided by the apathetic nature of this giant himself. The fellow had only now raised his head to blink stupidly at the strangers who had just spent several minutes smashing in his front door. Clearly, this giant was not blessed with lightning-quick reactions. The expression on his face bespoke an utter lack of intelligence and imagination. Perhaps it would not be madness to battle him for the prize of this shelter. Indeed, Bonechisel thought, a sudden, swarming attack might be the best option.