T Lain - Return of the Damned

A pasty, hunched-over man in ornate, magenta robes with golden pinstriping came through the door. He bowed.

“Captain Regdar is here to see you.”

The duke looked up from his desk. “Regdar, eh. Send him in.”

“Very good, my lord.” The hunched man bowed again and exited.

A moment later, the door swung open wider, and Regdar stepped across the threshold. He dropped to one knee.

“Rise, Captain,” said the duke, standing behind his desk. “Come in.”

Regdar stood up, closed the heavy wooden door behind him, and stepped farther into the room.

“I suspect your conversation with the good cleric went well.”

“Yes, sir, it did.”

The duke smiled. “And I also suspect you’ve come to tell me he talked some sense into that fool head of yours.” He chuckled.

“Not exactly, sir,” replied the big fighter.

The duke stopped laughing.

Regdar puffed himself up to his full height and stood at perfect attention. “I’ve come to resign my commission, sir.”

Duke Ramas strode around his desk and leaned back against its front edge. “Now, son, I realize I was a little hard on you today, but—”

“No, sir,” interrupted Regdar. “I believe you were entirely fair and honest with me.”

The duke shook his head, confused. “Then what is this all about?”

Regdar glanced down, looking uncomfortable. “It’s about Naull, sir. I believe she’s still alive.”

Duke Ramas pinched the bridge of his nose. “And you wish to resign your commission so you can go find her, is that it?”

“Yes, sir.”

The duke pounded his fist on the desk. “And what am I supposed to do when these black-armored soldiers come marching on New Koratia again? I need you here, Regdar, now more than ever.”

Regdar nodded.

The duke was frustrated. “These things I’ve been saying to you, these talks we’ve been having aren’t just about you being more careful, they’re about you learning how to take larger responsibility.”

“Yes, sir, I know,” replied Regdar. “Now I have a responsibility to myself to find out if the woman I love is still alive.” He stepped closer to the duke. “This is something I have to do. You have plenty of capable soldiers who can defend New Koratia while I’m gone, and when I return—”

“Your duty is to this duchy, Captain Regdar,” interrupted the duke, standing up to his full height and stepping up to look the big fighter in the eye. “If you leave now, don’t ever show your face in my territory again, or you will be hanged from a gallows for abandoning your post. Do I make myself clear?”

Regdar gritted his teeth. “Perfectly.” He unhitched his shield from his back. He looked at the red dragon crest—the field arms of the New Koratian military—on its front, then let it fall to the ground.

The duke flinched as it crashed to the hard wood floor.

Regdar saluted, turned on his heels, and exited the room, quietly shutting the door behind him.

The duke rubbed his eyes with his calloused palm. He sighed.

“May Pelor light your way, young man. May Pelor light your way.”

In the dying evening light, Regdar paced outside the barrack door. What would he tell the men? If Naull was being held by slavers, then one fighter, no matter how strong, wasn’t going to be able to rescue her. He needed their help but he was no longer their captain. He took a deep breath, steadied himself, and marched toward the open door.

Regdar crossed through the first chamber and into the bunk room. Whitman, Tasca, Clemf, and Krunk all looked up from their cots. He looked back.

“Well?” prompted Whitman after a pregnant pause.

Regdar paced the room, thinking about what he was going to say. He stopped and faced the four men, forcing a smile.

“The duke has given us his blessing,” he said, nodding.

“Even after what happened last night?” asked Tasca.

Regdar stood to his full height. “The duke has confidence that the New Koratian military and his elite guards can handle the situation, with or without our help.”

Tasca shrugged. “Okay then, what are we waiting for? Let’s go find your woman.”

The men began hefting their already-packed backpacks.

Regdar coughed into his fist.

The men stopped.

“I must remind you that this mission, like many in the past, is undertaken on a volunteer-only basis.” He looked each of them in the eye. “You are under no obligation to go.”

They all laughed, shouldering their gear and heading past Regdar out the door.

The big fighter smiled, grabbed his own belongings, and fell into step behind Clemf at the end of the line.

The party marched through the gates and down the River Delnir toward the Southern Sea. The moon slowly rose in the darkening sky, and the sound of crickets and the running river filled the soldiers’ ears.

“Nice night,” said Tasca.

“Only an elf would say that,” jabbed Whitman.

“What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” replied the dwarf, “maybe you ought to write us some poetry about the moonlight and the romantic crickets. Maybe the pretty little elf boy should have been a bard.”

Tasca pulled his rapier from his belt, flipped it endwise, and conked the dwarf on the helm with the bell. The heavy dwarven helmet rang loud in the quiet night, and the crickets stopped chirping.

“Will you two knock it off?” scolded Regdar. “Thanks to you all the bears and bandits know we’re out here.”

“It’s better that way,” said Whitman, smiling as he readjusted his helm. “I prefer a straight fight to all this sneaking around.”

“Duck!” Clemf landed hard on Regdar’s back, and the two men hit the ground.

“What the—” Regdar rolled over, ready to curse Clemf for his clumsiness, but found himself staring up at a river troll.

Whitman tumbled into action. Rolling forward, he came up at the foot of the beast. The shiny, dwarven-worked head of his weapon crashed down with a tremendous thud and a crack.

The troll’s thigh bone visibly collapsed, and its knee shot out at an odd angle. The creature hissed at the dwarf and swung back. Its claws raked along the side of Whitman’s helm. The spine-tingling screech, like the sound of a razor scraping soft stone, made Regdar cringe.

The dwarf, however, seemed not to mind. “That the best you got, you slimy giant?” cursed Whitman.

Tasca winked at Krunk before jumping into combat and slicing his blade across the troll’s arm.

A long gash opened up, and dark green fluid poured out, dripping to the ground and splashing on Whitman.

“Damn you, elf,” shouted the stout, little man.

“You should be taller,” replied Tasca, dodging the troll’s backhand.

A second troll pulled itself from the banks of the river. The mottled green beast dived into the fray, but Clemf and Krunk intercepted it before it could reach its companion.

“Must be a female,” shouted Krunk, ducking under a clawed fist.

Clemf lunged forward, jabbing his longsword at the green giant. “How do you know?”

Krunk’s mace connected with a meaty slap, ripping away a large hunk of flesh. “Because it’s bigger than the other.”

Regdar shook off his pack and clambered to his feet, then circled behind the first troll. The slash on its arm had already stopped bleeding, and the skin was closing over. Its leg, too, was straightening, but Whitman’s heavy blow had shattered the bone so that even the rapidly recovering beast moved slower than normal.

While Tasca and Whitman kept the monster at bay, Regdar rushed in from behind it. The troll saw its danger and tried to squirm away at the last minute, but being pinned between three opponents, it had nowhere to go. Regdar’s greatsword cleaved deeply into the rubbery hide.