The Throne of the Gods

Hitting the Mark

Orien's plan was in motion. A small fire on the outskirts of the camp had drawn the attention of most of the men. Any excuse for not doing your own work, if you're a bully-boy. Lassitor's pet Sage was out trying to restore order to the camp, as Orien knew it would happen. Now a small scuffle between two of the “officers” who had discovered their things in the things of the other was drawing even more attention and Lassitor's Chancellor had gone to deal with it. Bully-boys were easy marks, not worth anything but a pleasant distraction.

That left Lassitor himself, and this was the real genius of the plan, a note from Oak-whatever would be delivered in the midst of all the commotion. The mayor would be open to discussing terms of the surrender of his fair town in exchange for his life. It was a real nice piece of forgery too. Orien had gotten his hands on an official document while he was purchasing the lock for Lassitor's chest. The artistry would of course be lost on the ruffian, but anything worth doing was worth doing well.

Hoof beats could just be heard above the cacophony that was coming from outside. Orien took the opportunity to climb the stairs to the next floor where Lassitor's room was located. As expected, the bully-boys were at the windows watching the fight and the fire. He slipped past them unnoticed and entered the room. There was his quest sitting at the end of the bed. He knelt down before the chest to examine the lock and paused. Where there should have only been one lock, now there were two. At last, he thought with a grin, a surprise. Perhaps Lassitor isn't as dumb as he looks.

If the ruffian was paranoid enough to add a second lock, there was a good chance that he might trap the chest in some manner. Searching for it would add time, but his distractions would give him that time. Orien never left things to chance, if a job would take him ten minutes then he would plan on twenty. His hands gently ran along the box looking for imperfections that would tell him that it had been altered. His questing fingertips brushed against a small bump in the grain of the wood. He smiled; a trap had been built into the chest, now the real work could begin.

Orien took out the key he had secreted away and unclasped the first lock, reaching into his tunic he took out the tools of his trade, expertly choosing the two picks that would work best in the kind of lock he was facing. His hard work was met with a satisfying click, and the hasp opened. That left the trap. He was fairly certain it was a poison gas capsule set to break when the lid was lifted; the only way to overcome the trap was to remove the hinges. However, that was more work than a thug like Lassitor would be willing to go through every time he wanted to look at his loot.

Deftly feeling his way along the hinges, Orien found Lassitor's hidden release. The hinges could be re-centered from the outside, allowing the lid to lift without crushing the capsule. He slipped the hinges to the new locale and lifted the lid. Within the chest he found a dozen large sacks of gold, a few scrolls, a small sword that glowed softly within the dimness of the chest, and a tome covered in black and red leather. It was far more than he could carry alone, of course, but he was really only after two things.

The book was the Tome of Hydre, an old wizard who died over two thousand years ago; it was worth over a thousand gold royals. The other thing he was after was one of the scrolls, so he would take them all. While he was at it, however, the sword was an unexpected bonus. Orien wondered why Lassitor would hide away an obviously magical sword. He wasn't the kind of man to not flaunt such a weapon. He hadn’t been able to keep his mouth closed about the tome and the scroll, which was the very reason Orien was here. He didn't have time to question his fortune at the moment though. His distractions should be coming to an end now.

It didn’t sound like they were, however. Orien went over to the window and looked out. The inn yard was filled with smoke, far too much smoke to be from the fires he had set. There were also sounds of combat, steel ringing on steel, and cries of pain. Far too much noise to be the small confrontation he had orchestrated. He could only come to one conclusion, he had waited too long and someone had come to wipe out Lassitor and his bully-boys. Now he had to reconfigure his escape plans.

Orien never panicked. Fear was a motivator if you used it correctly, but if you gave way to panic then you couldn’t think. If indeed there was an assault on Lassitor's camp then all the bullies would be down there fighting for their lives; or running, whichever was easiest. That meant that the inn should be deserted. All he had to do was slip out through the kitchen to the stable and take a horse. Easy.

He slipped from Lassitor’s room like a spirit and walked quietly down the stairs. The “Throne” room was empty, and so he continued behind the bar. He reached the door to the kitchen and suddenly had a vision. Behind the door was the Chancellor, he had a crossbow aimed at the door and was sweating buckets. He had probably even soiled himself. Orien stumbled back from the doorway, the shock nearly driving him to panic. He had no explanation for what had just occurred but he found that he had no doubts about the veracity of the revelation.

Standing to the side of the doorway, Orien pushed the door open. He was not at all surprised when the crossbow's bolt flew through the open door. He stepped into the kitchen, the Chancellor rose quickly and drew his blade; the fear that had him hiding in the kitchen vanished as he looked upon the small man who entered. A smile of derision pulled at the corners of his mouth.

Orien knew the look; bully-boys always gave that look when they were sure they were going to win. He could see himself through the Chancellor's eyes; barely five feet tall; whipcord thin; and a smattering of dark beard upon his cheeks. To the Chancellor he looked more like a boy than a man. It was an impression he worked hard to maintain. He had not been in Lassitor's camp as a bully-boy, but as a messenger and errand runner.

As the Chancellor came forward, Orien drew his blade. No, not his blade, he had drawn the glowing short sword. It had not been his intent to pull that blade from its scabbard but it was too late to change his mind now. The Chancellor swung, his longer sword giving him an advantage on the smaller man. Orien parried the blow and found himself extending his parry into a counter strike that took his opponent on the right wrist.

The Chancellor snarled something about Orien's parentage as he snatched his hand back. This was another thing bully-boys did, yelling and cursing and trying to look tough; it was supposed to intimidate an opponent, maybe, or make them angry enough to forget about defense. Then again, maybe bully-boys were just stupid and liked to waste their breath. Orien pushed his advantage driving the Chancellor back toward the stoves. The chancellor lashed out at him repeatedly, his blade moving with no small amount of skill, but the glowing blade was always there to meet it and drive him back. Orien was beginning to feel as if he wasn't even in the fight, it was almost as if he was witnessing it but not participating.

Orien was not very comfortable with the idea of not being a participant. With his left hand he drew a dagger out of its sheath at the small of his back. When the Chancellor next backed away from the glowing sword’s counter, he threw the dagger into the man's throat. With a gurgle of air the Chancellor went down. Blood fountained from the Chancellor's mouth and he clawed the dagger from his throat before finally dying.

Orien retrieved his dagger, then without another thought for the Chancellor, he went for the back door, pausing only to throw the bolt the coward had used to lock himself away. He could hear the cries of battle still raging at the front of the inn. He began to wonder how many from Oak-whatever had come out to fight these bandits. In his years of watching human interaction it took a strong leader to galvanize normal humans into a fighting force willing to die to protect others. If this were not the case bully-boys wouldn't be able to run amok like they do.

The Oak-town had only a few hundred people in it, five maybe six hundred counting ranchers and farmers. Lassitor had just over two hundred men who liked to cause pain, men who knew no other trade but death. The last time Orien had been in Oak-whatever he had seen no one capable of galvanizing the locals. Even if there was, farmers and crafters could not be doing the damage to Lassitor's bully-boys they appeared to be doing. Curiosity was not good for self preservation, but Orien's was beginning to work overtime.

He knew he should just go to the stable, saddle a horse, and get out. Unfortunately, he was getting caught up in his imagination. The closest real city to Oak-town was Verinhew. They could marshal cavalry and footmen in the hundreds but they were a good week away on foot. The horsemen could be here in three days, earlier if ridden hard. Lassitor hadn't given his ultimatum to the Oak-whatever's mayor more than a day ago, when his men had tried to capture the witch. “Ah,” Orien said. “The witch.”

Adding magic to the mix could account for it, but was the witch a strong enough force to lead men to their deaths? He really didn’t think so. He skulked around the side of the inn, cursing with each step. In the middle of the courtyard a man in blazing armor fought off three of Lassitor's bully-boys. The witch was there as well. Fire shot from her fingertips, sizzling into archers whose arrows couldn't seem to find their marks. Lassitor's men were laying dead everywhere; it was evident that some had run when they saw how things were going. Orien could not believe his eyes. Two, it had only taken two.

Now it would be best to leave, he decided. There was nothing more to keep him here. So why wasn't he moving toward the stables, and why was that blue bladed sword back in his hand? He came around the building walking toward the two who were taking apart Lassitor's bully-boys. Without thinking about it Orien's blade caught the blade of a bully-boy who decided to rush them. He turned the blade aside, but the sword wouldn't seem to take the opening. It wasn’t the first time; he hadn’t been able to finish off the Chancellor either. He pulled his stiletto with his left hand and drove it through his opponent's neck while the blue sword continued parry without him even thinking about it.

The bully-boys were down. Orien stared in amazement at the corpses that littered the courtyard. It was obvious that over half of the bully-boys had broken and ran. The amount of shear devastation to Lassitor's troops was astonishing. Groans could be heard, now that the fighting had stopped. There were still some bully-boys alive it would seem.

“Who are you,” the knight asked.

Before Orien could answer Lassitor came toward them, he was alone. Lassitor strode confidently toward them, one of the wounded reach a hand out to him. Lassitor's sword, which was believed to have been blessed by the High Priestess of Shatt'ar, Goddess of Pain, struck the unfortunate bully-boy down. As Lassitor continued toward them he finished off those who had fallen but not yet died. Now why hadn't Lassitor come out to fight before all his bully-boys were defeated?

Lassitor's stride was unhurried and arrogant, almost as if he was lowering himself to meet them.

“What a mess you have made, witch,” Lassitor said as he approached. His eyes met Orien's and once more Orien wondered why he was still here. “I see you finally managed to get at my treasure, little thief. Your distractions were quite humorous.”

“There is a great evil here,” the armored man said.

Orien rolled his eyes. If the setting hadn’t been so terrifying he might have laughed. Apparently, the knight's swordplay was only matched by his keen grasp of the obvious.

“Evil,” Lassitor asked, stopping just outside of sword reach. “I guess you are right, from your own limited point of view.”

He glanced at the c*****e in the courtyard, and a cold smile crossed his face.

“I had wished you would join me of your own free will, Danneci, but I will take what I can get.”

He swept his hand outward then up.

The bodies of the dead bully-boys began to move. As they slowly got to their feet Orien backed up until he was touching the knight.

“Oh, Hells,” he said softly.

“Indeed,” responded the knight.

The forces of Lassitor rose from the ground, and with the glazed stare of the dead they came toward the three who were now back to back to back.

“What is this abomination,” the witch asked calmly of Lassitor. Her raised hands shot forth a sheet of flames that enveloped two of Lassitor's dead bully-boys, but they continued forward, merely singed.

“My dear, Danneci,” Lassitor replied. “This was my plan for these useless men all along. Of course, I was expecting to have all of Oakdell as well, but these will suffice.”

Orien’s new sword caught a blade he had not seen coming and turned it aside. He cursed himself for paying too much attention to the conversation and not enough to the dead men trying to kill him. He kicked the assailant in the knee and heard the tale-tell sound of bones breaking; his opponent slowed but did not stop.

The knight was hewing down the dead quite handily. Orien could almost feel warmth radiating from the man. These dead things seemed to have a harder time when facing him, their actions seemed more unfocused. Orien tried to keep himself within the knight’s effective circle.

Although he was focused on fighting for his life, Orien had realized that his new sword was protecting him better than he could himself. He also knew that he had to keep his awareness open to what lay beyond his immediate battle if he was going to survive. Lassitor had not moved since he had brought the bully-boys back from the dead. His smile was cold as he viewed his enemies fighting for their lives against these dead men, but something was moving back at the inn.

All of Orien's tricks in combat required that his opponent be alive to be effective. These dead men did not seem to feel pain, and since he had tried a punch to the stomach without effect they obviously didn’t breathe either. Orien was small and not particularly strong, his tricks were really all he had. If not for the magical sword he had taken from Lassitor he would have been dead several times over.

The witch was not faring well either, her spells seemed to have a lesser effect on these creatures. Almost as if her magic was only geared toward those who were alive. She was able to force them back but couldn't seem to finish them off.

The figure by the inn had moved up behind Lassitor, who remained unmoving, his attention focused on the battle. As it stepped out of the shadows, Orien was surprised to see it was the Sage. Orien saw the glint of metal just moments before the Sage drove his dagger into Lassitor's lung. Lassitor turned and drove his sword clear though the little man then fell to his knees. “Why?” He managed to croak out through the blood, but the Sage was already dead and had no answer. As Lassitor's eyes glazed over in death, his dead bully-boys fell to the ground as well, dead once more.

Orien was unsure how he found himself on horseback with the knight and the witch headed for the Oak-town. He was unsure why he was still with these two. He thought to himself several times that he should just turn aside and go his own way, but for some reason he never did. That was how he found himself in the Golden Goblet Inn, a presumptuous name since all the goblets were wooden, eating a bowl of stew and listening to the two of them prattle on about the strange circumstances of Lassitor's death. Once more he wondered why he wasn't leaving.