Sons of Ironstorm - Book 4: Griffon's Stand

A New Player

The wiry sorcerer's questions only grew after he finally found enough strength to stand and cast a small healing spell on himself before stepping outside to discover the rest of his tjor'riin escort dead. Some were on the ground, twisted in grotesque shapes by whatever force took hold of them while others were curled up as if sleeping, though they took no wind to indicate life. Several of the pit's casters he found amongst their numbers, as broken and unmoving as the tjor'riin. Whatever forbearance the grisling and the laekisha had in not slaughtering him where he stood obviously hadn't been extended to this lot.

The guards on top of the observation had suffered the same fate, even the Nahkiwin, their broken forms thrown about as if a great storm had passed through their midst, scattering their strongest formations. Osteon thoughtfully strode through their unmoving corpses towards the entrance, pondering how such creatures could've been given life in their vats and how convenient the timing seemed to be.

<<My lord!>> a tjor'riin sergeant barked from the doorway, in full armour and with weapons drawn. A full company of heavily armed Tjor'riin, trolls and Nahkiwin accompanied him, each bristling with deadly intent.

<<Are you all right?>>

Osteon looked up, his thoughtful frown unwavering.

<<Well enough, sergeant. Police the bodies, using what you can for the Wendigo creation process, and make sure the breeders are intact.>>

<<At once, my lord,>> the non-commissioned officer exclaimed, sending his forces forward with curt gestures. <<Has the enemy retreated? Were they dark elves?>>

<<Dark elves?>> He glanced over his shoulder at the seeming peace of the pit as several tjor'riin and Nahkiwin went over the edge and down the ladders. <<No, not dark elves. But whatever they are, they've left us alone. For now.>> He looked back at the sergeant who was only just then sheathing his sword, a typically jagged-edged tjor'riin rapier.

<<When your troops have finished their sweep and secured the pit floor, have Gepht executed and his head brought to me.>>

<<At once, my lord.>> The sergeant bowed low to hide his own discomfort, knowing his head could be on a pike next. And thus was nearly knocked onto his face when Osteon's two enhanced Tjor'riin pushed roughly past, broadswords naked and ready in their gauntleted fists. Osteon quickly gestured towards the pit.

<<Make sure your maturing comrades are intact and examine the maturation chamber,>> he commanded. <<The changelings were born there. Perhaps it'll yield a clue as to their origin and why they were here.>>

The two nodded and, after sheathing their weapons, also swarmed down the ladders to the pit floor below. Osteon watched after them for a brief moment, hands behind his back. 'I just hope the convenient timing of this attack isn't indicative of something greater,' he thought grimly before turning back towards the door, moving slowly so as to not trip over one of the many sprawling forms. 'I don't have the luxury of worrying about more than one enemy at a time!'

The shadowy figure was still cloaked in uneasy darkness when it settled back against a nearby tree and watched the portal open in the glade about twenty paces distant, its dark mouth hazed by the rain falling between it and the figure's eyes. Still there was no mistaking the golden figure of the grisling as he stepped forward, naked, into the glade to pause a pace or two beyond the portal's mouth to let the cool winter rain pelt against his unprotected skin for a brief moment, a strange, wondering smile on his face. Then a flare of light wrapped around him and he was clothed in tunic and breeches, a heavy cloak draped about his shoulders, the dark fabric quickly gaining water stains from the driving precipitation.