Gauntlet

Last Stand of the Fell Brigade

Submitted for the Changing Seasons contest (Round 4) by ChallengeCorner

Prompt: a <500-word fantasy story inspired by the video above (images, music, lyrics); 498 words

It all happened so quickly. Our squad was preparing to cross Gygax Ravine, near the charnel meadows. That's when the hostiles called out:

"For the Protectorate!"

Ambushed from behind! Unseen blade-mages—Empyreanauts, most likely—pelted us with arcane bolts.

Demi-Skourge Malakkte was felled by an eldritch blast to the neck, cutting off vital access to his mind. This was a gargantuan problem because Mal was the only person who knew the full mission objective.

We regrouped, taking cover behind sturdy ancient ruins, with our backs to the cliff. Just our luck; besieged in hostile territory with no field commander.

We took stock of everything we knew. Our instructions were to gather at the Rabid Stallion tavern in Mächtigstadt, just below the passage to Stelenhold fortress. Then we rendezvous with someone named "The Stygian"... but only Mal could recognize them. Basically, we were truvved.

Just as things seemed hopeless, Scrubthorn had a crazy idea: if we survived until the next witching hour, we could burn Malakkte's corpse. That way, Mortique could speak with him via necrophone rite. The pyre might also signal the Legion's Wyrmback Troopers to rescue us, if they passed overhead.

"What an epic tale I could share!" said the low-elf.

Kronk hated the idea. "No hidey! We go!"

The ogre suddenly charged towards the rope bridge, spiked mace held aloft; dodging mystic projectiles until they wore him down. Now we had no real muscle left.

After dusk, Ugmeq the Maddened lived up to his name. He had a vision of Asphonoch, his patron abyssal, beckoning him from Sanguinheim. He followed the apparition right off the cliff into Gygax Ravine. His assault spellcasting knowledge perished with him.

As witching hour drew near, Scrubthorn tuned his lyre. He sang the Legion's war-dirge to rouse our spirits:

This land would call us monsters
So monsters we would be

With a loathsome incantation, I summoned Rover from its slumber in the Cthonic Planes. The formless blob emerged from the portal inside my amulet, leaving a hideous trail of cosmic placenta.

Under the yoke of the fairer folk
Such horrors we would see!

I pointed Rover in the direction of the hostiles. The entity skulked towards the bushes, hunting down the blade-mages from their stealth positions in the undergrowth.

While Rover was out feasting, Mortique set Malakkte's corpse ablaze. Her fingers contorted into eldritch gestures above the pyre.

'Til we heard Lord Vargonn's call
To spill the blood of Eve

By that point, I found little pleasure in hearing the desperate cries of the blade-mages in the meadow. Rover dissolved the flesh off their skeletons, then marked its territory on their bodies.

Mortique began her unholy communication with Mal. It was just enough to learn our marching orders.

Under fell banners, our tribes did gather
Such fearsome monsters we!

As dawn broke across the gorge, we marveled at the outline of Stelenhold in the distance.

Now we had a clear mission: to neutralize an apex dragon from behind enemy lines.