The Adventures of Larson and Garrett, Run or be Run Through

Chapter Five

Under the cover of darkness, David remained perched in the higher branches of an old spruce tree. For hours, he had seen nothing—no White Wraiths, no monsters, no movement, save a few bobcats prowling for meals. Beyond the trees was a clearing where Lirin's Hold stood prominently.

The tower was at least a hundred feet high. Wavering glows were visible through the lowest windows, but there was no one atop the tower, and no one marching around the clearing, which was littered with debris like old furniture, broken catapults and ballistae, and more indiscernible trash. Finally, while some bats clicked in the vicinity, the sound of voices grew audible. David sniffed once, and repositioned his crossbow over folded arms; a group of three wearing robes marched from the tower's southern entrance.

It was impossible to be certain, but he thought none of them were high elves. Waiting patiently, he observed them walk off to fiddle around with the broken weaponry. A moment of tension dragged on. The cultists were tossing aside bits and pieces of wood and rope. The warrior figured he wasn't going to get a better shot, so he took a breath, relaxed, aimed, and released a bolt. The projectile nailed one in the side of the neck, and he crashed to the ground. The others dropped to the ground, rolled behind cover, and looked in David's direction.

The warrior made no movement. He simply watched his enemies. One of them patted the other and pointed to the tower. They seemed to deliberate before one ran off. It was a good ten minutes before a party carrying weapons emerged; even with a lack of light, their daemonic armaments glimmered black and red. Fearing giving away his position, David neglected to load a new bolt.

The cultists fanned out. Some of them casted protection spells, gracing their clothing with purple and blue patterns. One of them began sending out glowing orbs of white light. The spells shot off like fireballs except they halted about twenty feet in the air, simply hovering, bobbing up and down. Scrambling about, searching for a sign of anything, they gave the archer a chance to reload, and when he did, he nailed the light caster in the back with another bolt; he, too, hit the ground like a sack of dirt.

One of the cultists yelled something about searching the trees. That made David's heart skip a beat, and soon he was surrounded by gawkers, yet he knew they had not noticed him. Seconds later, six warriors of Akalabash ran from the hills, screaming with battle lust; they cut down their opposition with ease. Howls of agony echoed before white robes turned red with blood. Silence then prevailed.

Larson saw everything unfold from his hiding spot. He had crawled beneath a thick bush, and thanks to his magickal equipment, not only was he able to see quite clearly, he was also unnoticeable. Holding his breath, he kept watch for a moment longer—the death of the light caster had rendered the scene dark again, though his ring left him as though looking through a predawn twilight. Unfortunately, he had failed to make notice of the man atop the tower. A high elf with blue hair raised his arms, and the six fighters, who were rolling the cultists, went up in blood and guts as though struck by Heavenly lightning.

"Gods damn it," Larson heaved.

Just like that, more than half his crew had lost their lives, and he was no closer to facing Largo. As his mind raced, trying to figure out whether it was best to stand and search for the elf, he saw another bolt fly from the tree and towards the tower's roof. The missile struck the elf, and he stumbled about before ultimately removing the bloodied instrument. With a deep breath, and wide eyes, the warrior silently prayed to Akalabash for strength and accuracy; Larson stood and hurled his hand axe with all his might.

The soaring weapon spun as it hurtled beneath the gleaming, night sky. Thanks only to the might of the God of War, the axe struck its mark, sending the elf clean off the roof. He crashed to the ground, dead, and Larson felt the haft of the weapon in his hand as though he had never thrown it. Wondering what to do next, the warrior waited, his heart beating in his throat.

Do I call David? Do I wait? My Gods, my men.... The sound of shuffling drew Larson from ruminations. He noticed David huddled at the base of the tree, reloading his weapon. Making a quick dash, his cloak fluttering, he reached his compatriot. Their wide eyes, intolerant of their own disbelief, met.

"What do you want to do," David asked.

"I don't know," Larson heaved, shaking his head.

The archer brushed black strands of hair from his forehead as he looked from his leader to remnants of his dead friends, and then back to his leader. "There will be more coming now, and there's no way we can take them. We should retreat."

It was sound advice, but Larson had not reached Lirin's Hold only to turn tail and run; he needed to witness the form of Lagos. "Go. I'll stay and fight."

"Don't be stupid."

"Listen to me," Larson demanded. "You have to return to Xorinth. You have to let everyone know what's going on here...and I have to see my brother."

"You'll never make it that far," David argued.

"Maybe not," the warrior admitted, grimly, "but, perhaps, if I issue a challenge, it will be met."

"And then what? He'll cut you down, or the others will. Don't throw your life away. We can regroup and come back with more men. The wizard's dead–"

"I'm staying!"

"Be quiet," he whispered, forcefully. "They'll hear you."

"Lagos," Larson bellowed, facing the southern entrance.

David reached out for his friend, but Larson darted off beyond the damaged weaponry. Clicking his tongue, David waited a moment, and then left Larson to make his way back to the mountain trail. In the meantime, Larson raised his great sword over his head; he continued shouting, demanding a fight, taunting that destruction had no honor, but only fear for righteous warriors.

Larson's rage and fear were at their apex when beyond the entrance's subtle glow, a shadowy figure appeared. Then, more appeared until there was only darkness, yet with his ring, he saw numerous men pour from the opening. They fanned out into two groups. One more figure stormed out, a tall, thick man whose head looked to be graced by curved horns.

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