Part 9 “Reality”

Dartac gets up and resumes taking his measurements once more.

“I'm afraid that I haven't heard many accounts exaggerated more than that.”

Many have heard of what I did at Stormvault, but that variant was a new one. It turned out well, but by Bahamut's breath it was stupid thing for me to do. I guess I'll fill him in on the truth.

“We were hired to help protect Stormvault from the invading forces of Lord Adrian of Cliffhaven. Stormvault had a large wall around its perimeter, all in all a very good defensive position. But Cliffhaven was known for the size of its army. When they went on the march, the lord of Stormvault hired several mercenary companies to help man the wall. Ours was one of many.”

Back when we were The Swiftblades, we were mainly an infantry unit focusing on siege defense and offense against smaller defensive outposts. Back when 'The Captain' was just my nickname for the kid and not his actual title.

“Our job that time was mainly to keep the walls. Knock down siege ladders, deal with siege towers, deal with anyone who managed to set foot on the wall. I was on the west side, near the gatehouse.

“The commanders of the defense forces were relying too heavily on the walls. They had all of their men on them, I wondered if the commander of the western defenses wasn't in on the plot.

“All of us shooting bows, knocking over siege ladders. The portcullis was well made and constructed of adamant, the greenish ultra-hard metal not even denting from the blows of the massive battering ram of the enemy. I was just tipping over a siege ladder along with some of the men on the wall when the call came.”

“Traitor in the gatehouse!”

“Someone, somehow, had infiltrated the guards in Stormvault, I hadn't heard that it was a shapeshifter before, though it may have been. They managed to raise the adamant portcullis. They also managed to barricade the doors leading in from the wall and roof of the tower. The battering rams were still there underneath a metal roofed testudo. I could already hear them pounding at the wooden doors.”

If they got through those they could take the stairs up into the gatehouse, secure it, keep it open and flood into the city and onto the walls from the inside. I couldn't let that happen, it might not have assured defeat, but many of us would die.

“I could already hear the battering ram slamming against the oaken gates. I looked down the wall, the nearest stairway down was too far to make it in time, and with the raising of the portcullis the enemy troops ceased raising ladders.

The only way down that was fast enough, required me to give in to a stupid idea, quickly formed in my head. “A grapnel from the raising of the most recent ladder was still affixed to the battlement, I was about to throw it down when the call came. Instead, I grabbed on to it and jumped, sliding down the rope with one hand.

“Lucky I didn't break my legs on landing; full suit of plate, one hand on the rope the other holding my sword. I dropped really fast. At least three archers had good enough eyes to see what I was up to, but not enough luck to hit me.

I could hear the cracking of the gates, as I rushed in through the back of the testudo, they were splintered open just as the lightning enchanting my blade began to crackle in anticipation of combat, an enchantment I had enhanced my blade with just a few weeks earlier.

“The battering crew numbered ten men, not dark elven amazons. They had barely enough time to draw their blades before I dropped them.” I remember them twitching as they fell.

“The first squad of enemy infantry approached. They saw me standing there alone and laughed. They must have thought it would be humiliating to send a champion out to face me in single combat.” It was, for them.

“He was a decent warrior, too reckless in the end. Then two charged forward, then three. I was in the narrowest part of the gate house, it restricted their ability to mob me. One after the other, then in twos or threes I killed them, an occasional flash of the lightning with a high pitched buzz and followed by the smell of singed flesh and leather. The morale of the infantry watching broke, they refused to come in after me anymore.

“I'll fill you in on something not everyone that has heard of the battle knows. They called upon the archers. The men on the walls couldn't really see it, and it was over before reinforcements arrived. Other than myself and any of the surviving enemy, only the best bards somehow know.” How do the bards always know?

“The archers began filing into the closed space of the testudo, and opened fire. I didn't suffer a single arrow wound though. No, not one. Somehow, I knew just how to move. Each deadly shaft glancing off of my ever mobile claymore. I don't know how I knew, but those aimed poorly were ignored, glancing off of armor or missing entirely.” How did I manage that, it was a job for a shield wall not a lone swordsman, but, somehow, I made it.

“Eventually the archers, gave up. I heard at least one shout out that this was a waste of arrows. Men from the walls arrived forming a shield wall in the gatehouse.

“I had to move the corpses after that. Bodies in the way, couldn't let that prevent the gate from falling all the way, and the shieldmen didn't want to break their line. It has to drop completely and lock, otherwise enough men might be able to simply lift it back up. I went back to the wall, we held that city.”

Somehow enough people saw it, and then word spread. The lord of the city, titled me Stormguard. I never had a surname, it stuck. I became famous, and the company with me. Only 'The Captain' called me out on it. I knew... I could have been shot leaving the safety of the battlements, could have broken my legs, could have injured my arm dropping, shot by archers in the gateway, killed by the flood of enemies, overwhelming odds against me. What saved me in the end, luck or skill, it didn't matter. It was a stupid move, even though it turned out alright in the end, and being reminded of it all the time isn't something I enjoy. The Captain calls me Leo, he only calls me Stormguard when I do something really outrageous, sometimes he even calls out the other men for trying to 'Pull a Stormguard'. I haven't done something like that in years, even during my blackouts.

“I wonder myself sometimes, if I was lucky, skilled, or had fate guiding me, it doesn't matter in the end.”

“Nope, you accomplished something incredible, saved the whole city. I bet everyone in The Emerald Dragons wants to learn from you.”

I've given up on letting people know how I feel about the story. No one seems to understand, other than The Captain. They all say I should be proud, live the high life off of my fame.

“Yeah, I don't have the knack for teaching though, unfortunately...”

Dartac finishes taking his measurements. I let him know that while I plan on continuing to use my claymore, I also will be taking up a shield and mace, to hone another style.

“Shields don't need much fitting, but I'll take that into consideration for the design of your suit. I have plenty, pick one out after you've tried on the armor, see what balances best with you.”

I leave half of the payment for the armor and head out to find one of the weapon smiths. I think I will leave my name out of the conversation, if possible, with this next one.

Part 8 “The Legend”

(Co-written by Blaze, http://lessthan141.blogspot.com/ )

Dartac brushes off a bench and perches there, “First off, you have to forgive me but I always believed that the Stormguard in the tales was one of my kind, a Dwarf.  Although, his height was exaggerated, I figured that like my nephew Igarr he was just a big Dwarf.”  Drawing out his pipe and tamping then lighting it from the forge, Dartac inhales a huge drought of the smoke and expels it from his nostrils. The pale blue smoke smells of bay and rum and something my nose doesn’t recognize.

“Stormvault,” he began, “was a fatted calf of a city, and the Lord there was a half-elven princeling more interested in his library and his vines than he was in the stewardship of his city, which made it ripe for picking by the likes of a demon spawn general like Adrian of Cliffhaven.  Part orc, part human and all greed the general was always spoiling for the land of his neighbors and he was ready to crack the walls of Stormvault like you’d crack the shell of a crab, to get at the meat.

“The soft folks of the city would have simply opened their gates, except for the mercenary brigade of the Swiftblades.  (Who, forgive me, but I always thought you were all dwarves.)  That aside, as the thousand strong army of the dread warlord Adrian approached the walls of Stormvault, and the civilians huddled in the fragile safety of the inner bailey, Stormguard,” he gestured at the man before them, “well, you.  – Did you have a beard at least back then?”  

I shake my head, beards are a handle for the enemy to grab, and they tend to pinch in the chin strap of your helm or get caught in the hinge-works of your gorget.

Dartac shakes his head sadly, as if beardlessness strikes him as a palsy, and he feels bad for them who do not sport a fringe at their chin.  “Where was I?  Yes, as that ill favored horde of Adrian rumbled endlessly toward Stormvault, the general astride his war wurm, and the goblins and ogres snapping whips at the slaves who dragged the siege towers and war machines inexorably toward the city...” again he drew on his pipe and caused a wreath of pale blue to join the air around us with his words,  “This fellow...  Stormguard, fearless and battle-tempered, strode the palisades about the Western Gate, now called the Lion Gate – on account of his great deeds, giving all his fellows and those few city guards who knew their duty” a cough and a whispered, “dwarves of course,” before he resumed the tale, “hope that they would make it through to the morning.”

I roll my eyes.

“The people of Stormvault were relying too heavily on those walls for too long and on their great Greening Gate.”  Dartac cautioned his workers, “warriors make the battle, and armor makes a warrior better able to do his job.”  He puffed out the words...

“The Swiftblades knew their work, and stretched thin on the battlements, soon they were in the thick of shooting bows, knocking over siege ladders, and dumping flaming oil on the invading foe!  Despite the odds, they were doing a good job of it, too.   But numbers as well as skill have influence upon a battle, and the Adriani Horde was mighty.

“Soon the great adamant gate was feeling the ravening kiss of  battering rams, even though all around siege towers were catching fire from Swiftblade arrows.

“None scored more hits or drew more tirelessly than Stormguard himself.  He was everywhere at once!  Courage!  Courage!  He shouted to his men and to those city guard who had stood their ground (being dwarves.)

“Adrian was not to be denied however, for it was his way to hedge every bet and he was not opposed to subterfuge.  So it was that while Stormguard was deeply engaged with a several imps armed with scimitars, the adamant suddenly began to raise, and came the cry of Traitor!”

“Yes, the evil changelings of the Adriani had infiltrated the populace and now they manage to raise the adamant portcullis.  The bold defenders found access from the wall and interior to the gate house blocked, each door and hatch barricaded.  But our bold Stormguard here, was not to be denied!  Looking down from the wall he knew that the roof of the testudo beneath him covered a ram of enormous dimension, one which would make short work of the metal clad wood once the portcullis was no longer there to hamper ingress.”

“Where others might have hesitated, Stormguard cried out that he had a duty to save the city and his fellows, and he disarmed the imps and lashed them together using their wings he jumped from the battlements, and because they feared death they flapped for all they were worth, bearing him reluctantly to the roof of the testudo!” He mimed an archer pulling, his pipe the arrow, “fell archers drew and let fly at Stormguard.  One hand on the ankle of an imp, and the other holding the haft of his lightning-sword, he twisted midair, dodging the deadly flight. But three imps were not equal to the task and wings torn they plummeted to the ground below.” The dwarf’s eyes glittered in the firelight, “not our lad here!  He twisted in the air like a cat, and landed on his feet, there, before the raised portcullis and the heavy oaken doors of Stormvault, he was all that stood between the gate and the Horde which sought to ravage that fair city.  And well you know, if they took the gate, that would be all... Pale blue lightnings crackled and raised from Stormguard’s sword, skittering and playing on the blade, causing arm hairs to stand on end.

“Yes, Stormguard had a sword that was enchanted, as they say, to the hilt,” Dartac chuckled at his own joke, staccatto puffs of smoke dotting his laughter, “and it was getting ready to work the problem.”  He made a fist, as if he hefted the magic blade himself.

“Now the testudo of Adrian was covering a ram the likes of which has not been seen since.  It bore the likeness of the great head of the dread Pachycephus, the dragon who had battered his way into the vault of Queen Diedre the Miser.  It was the width of two men’s height and it took forty drow-amazons to start its swing.  Inside its frontmost parts was a fire laden kiln, and as it drew back it belched flame and bellowed as if alive.  But Stormguard here?  He had no fear of it, for he knew exactly what was to be done!”

As Dartac looks to me, I find myself wondering what pearl of wisdom this more magnificent Stormguard has than I; because faced with this scenario, I would be put upon to breathe, let alone think.  I nod to encourage him to continue this confabulation.

“Single combat!  He cried, knowing what pride the Captain of the drow women embodied.  Her swords brandished, for she fought with two weapons and no armor, bare-breasted and savage-like she danced forward, all speed and agility.  Stormguard stood, unmoving, and remarkably unmoved by her beauty now I think of it, which would have been remarkable even for a dwarven male, but nigh impossible for a mortal man.”  Here he pats my arm as if to give me an ‘atta boy.’

“She danced the dance of death, her kata, her dark hair flashing around her bare shoulders the blades blood red with ancient magics, and eyes smouldering, like the head of the ram smouldered.  But our hero did not ease his high guard, nor move, allowing her to come to him, to think he must be enraptured, or frozen in fear.  Until she makes her attack.  Then, snicker snack, like a whip cracking his sword moves - no tell to belie its courses, and her head rolls and her body drops. Dead. Dead. Dead.  The vicious Drow who had slain a thousand foes and never taken injury.  Her blood still feeds the small purple flowers that grow at the West Gate of Storm vault.” The pale blue smoke appears again and he waves it aside, “but this was no moral foe, and seeing their captain felled the infantry broke ranks and charged.

“Stormguard, like the farmer culling his wheat, sliced back and forth tirelessly, his strong arm harvesting the heads and limbs of his enemies until the bodies lay thick, and the ground was muddied and even then they came!  But this warrior who was not afraid nor outmatched stood and held that gate until his fellows could slay the traitors within, and drop the portcullis again.

“As I heard it they had to move bodies of the slain out of the way, so that the teeth could find their purchase and be locked.  Stormguard cut the chains from the ram and sent it hurtling down the hill to crush the enemy below, or scatter them, or both.  And then he scaled back to the parapets on a rope lowered by his allies.

“He alone had saved Stormvault.”  Dartac drew in one last lung full, and blew it forth, before tapping his pipe out and wiping his calloused  hands on his thick leather apron.

I wonder if there is a hero’s discount.