T Lain - Return of the Damned

A warm flush of pride and hope washed over Regdar, filling him with strength and confidence. He gripped his sword tightly in his good hand, dislodged it with a mighty tug, and lunged at the nearest soldier. The tip of the blade slipped across a metal plate on the man’s splintmail and lodged in the leather padding underneath. The big fighter dropped his shoulder and put weight behind the strike.

“This is for Clemf,” he said, and the tip plunged through hardened leather into soft flesh.

The man screamed and let go of his weapon, reaching with both hands to try to pull Regdar’s sword out of his belly. He didn’t need to, as Regdar wrenched it free himself, shouting, “Two!”

With the backswing he decapitated the last of Clemf’s killers and roared, “Three!”

The swirling blue-white of the teleportation circle faded from Jozan’s eyes, and he took in the grand melee before him. Regdar and his crew were badly outnumbered. The four new arrivals didn’t even the balance, but Alhandra and her holy avengers resolutely advanced to deal with the blackguard.

Jozan went to save his friend Regdar.

A semicircle of armored warriors surrounded the man.

“You never did learn when to retreat,” he said, knowing that even if Regdar could hear him, he wouldn’t listen anyway.

The cleric stepped up to the first black-armored warrior he encountered and placed his hand on the man’s shoulder. His fingers glowed as they touched the metal plates of the splintmail. At first contact, his spell discharged, flooding into the warrior. All the muscles in the man’s body constricted, and he exhaled as if being crushed, then collapsed to the ground.

A handful of the soldiers menacing Regdar turned their attention to the newly arrived cleric.

Jozan lifted the mace from his belt. “May Pelor see fit to look after your immortal souls,” he recited as he hammered the head of his weapon against a warrior’s helm.

“Moradin works in mysterious ways,” said Whitman between swings of his massive hammer. His arms were growing tired, but the sight of the cleric, the paladin, and their holy avengers filled him with a needed boost of strength.

So far he’d considered himself lucky. His enchanted elven chain armor blocked at least a half-dozen scimitar attacks that he’d been unable to parry with his hammer. He was cut a few times, but he still had his head, both feet, and two hands. Though he figured a good dwarf was worth at least three jann any day, he had to admit that this particular fight had involved more luck than skill.

“Just not in the dice for me today,” he said, slamming down the head of his hammer on a janni’s foot.

The outsider gave a terrific roar, then returned the blow with its scimitar. The fine blade descended, and Whitman watched it come in. Twisting sideways, the dwarf let the weapon slip down his belly, skidding harmlessly off the worked metal rings of his armor and sliding all the way to the floor.

The janni overbalanced and had to bend forward to keep hold of its sword. Whitman kicked up, catching his foe in the gut. The burly outsider blew out all the air in its lungs in a singular, uncontrolled belch, and let go of its sword, opting instead to protect its ribs.

The janni balanced for a moment, bent forward as it was, wobbling a bit back and forth. Then, almost as if it were moving in slow motion, it tumbled backward, landing first on its ass, then on the back of its head.

No longer surrounded, Whitman tumbled one full revolution away from the other two jann. When he came to his feet, he brought his hammer up before him and smiled at his otherworldly opponents.

“Now,” he said, tapping the head of his weapon in his muscular palm, “if either of you have any wishes left, I suggest you use them to get your sorry butts out of here before I turn you into genie paste.”

Tasca touched the wound on his face. He pulled his hand away and examined the blood, then he looked up at Lindroos and smiled.

“I think,” he said, “that a scar on my cheek will only make me more rakishly attractive.” He polished his fingernails against his chest. “I should thank you. Women love scars.” He chuckled. “You of all people should know that.”

When a loud boom echoed through the room and a glowing sphere of light erupted in the opposite corner, the blackguard turned around. Tasca didn’t hesitate before leaping for his bow.

In one bound he made it to the spot and scooped up the weapon. He spun, an arrow already nocked to its string, prepared for the blackguard and whatever new monstrosity was inside that magical cylinder.

He was pleasantly surprised. Instead of the gibbering horror or pit fiend he had expected to see, a trio of Heironeous’s holy warriors were advancing on Lindroos, and a cleric of Pelor was rushing up to help Regdar.

“Well, well,” said the elf, letting his arrow fly across the room. “The gods are fickle indeed.”

Regdar fought with renewed strength. Behind the line of killers surrounding him, his old friend Jozan was also bashing heads.

“Not quite the same as killing goblins, eh cleric?” Regdar shouted over the noise of battle. His greatsword sliced into a soldier’s arm, cutting it off at the elbow. Reversing directions, he chopped at another.

“No,” came the reply from Jozan. “At least we don’t have Lidda to worry about this time.” His mace collided with another man’s skull. The warrior went down in a heap.

Regdar replied, “What I wouldn’t give for her quick wit and quicker sword right now.”

“Me, too,” admitted Jozan. “Me, too.”

Alhandra and her two holy avengers stood before Lindroos, their swords at the ready.

“I’d give you a chance to surrender, sister,” said the paladin, “but I know too well that you’d rather do this the hard way.”

Lindroos nodded. “Naturally.”

“I don’t know how you managed to survive your trip to the Elemental Plane of Fire, but this time, I’ll finish you myself.” Alhandra charged her sister, the two holy warriors at her side.

Lindroos gave ground before the holy warriors as they came on. In her retreat, the blackguard lifted a small, ornately carved horn to her lips and gave it a sharp blow. A deep bellow issued forth. Thick, soupy vapor poured out of the instrument to roll over the lip and drift toward the floor.

At the sound of the horn, the warriors arrayed around the room turned away from their combats without hesitating a blink and flocked to their mistress. Their stampede shook the floor, and the noise of their booted feet echoed from the walls.

The jann, too, heeded the call by flying up toward the ceiling, leaving the angry, hammer-wielding dwarf far below. They crossed the room in a heartbeat and landed between the blackguard and her pursuers.

Alhandra put her hand up, staying her holy avengers. The trio stopped and turned toward the crowd of oncoming soldiers, letting Lindroos continue to run.

The blackguard blew again on her horn. The dense fog poured out, quicker now. In moments she was surrounded by her minions and by a growing, opaque cloud. As a group, the soldiers and jann backed into the fog, slowly disappearing from view.

Regdar and Jozan crossed the room to stand beside Alhandra. The elf and dwarf followed suit. Together they formed a line, seven warriors against perhaps twice their number.

Lindroos was concealed by the fog at this point up to her shoulders. She took in another breath and blew again, filling the corner of the room.

“I’d say it was nice to see you again, sister,” she said, “but I know how you feel about lies.” The fog drifted above her head, obscuring her completely from view.

The still-growing fog bank reached out in drifting tendrils, devouring the retreating gang of evil warriors. Alhandra looked back at Regdar and his men. They were all wounded, dripping blood from multiple wounds. Over the big fighter’s shoulder, the paladin caught sight of Naull, her crumpled body lying in a heap in the middle of the room.