Inns and Invocations Ch. 01

"And I'm married," Conall said, sipping his drink.

Thanee laughed, a frank, powerful bellow coming straight from her stomach. "So what?"

She slid into the chair, allowing the cloak to drift to the floor. She was naked underneath and under Conall's gaze, she leaned back, inviting his scrutiny.

Thanee was powerfully built, with shoulders as wide as many men's. Her breasts were ample handfuls, the left nipple pierced with a silver stud. A similar stud sat in her navel and a trio of scarred claw marks came around her right hip, the longest ending just above her shaved mound. Conall raised his gaze until their eyes met. A third stud pierced her right earlobe and her hair was of a fierce rust red, pouring down her back in a quintet of thin braids.

"That's not a look of utter disgust - or vehement denial," Thanee purred. Her dark eyes sparkled playfully and her broad grin exposed two small fangs growing out of her bottom jaw. "I'm sure I'd find a stout lance if I were to search inside your pants."

"One would have to be dead not to enjoy a magnificent body such as yours," Conall said, busying himself with his drink. "My Deirdre is no dainty flower herself, but you, my dear Thanee, are a warrior-goddess in the flesh."

The naked half-orc caressed down her front, stopping just shy of her sex. "Tell me, Sergeant-"

"Conall."

"Tell me, Conall... is it a fight or my body you'd want? I would be more than happy to take you off your feet and mount you, right here and now. You're kinder than most, good with words and almost nice on the eyes." Her voice had turned into a lusty growl, her fingers teasing herself.

"Almost?" Conall cocked an eyebrow.

"You could do with ten pounds of mass on your bones." Thanee said. "Don't they feed you properly?"

Conall chuckled. "Neither the camp mess nor the field rations are meant to encourage gluttony, if that's what you're asking. Eating here tonight was the first proper meal in months." He took a long sip from his drink. "And as much as I appreciate the sentiment, I still have to decline."

"You're the first man of principle wearing a black cloak I've met." Thanee sighed in disappointment and bent down, plucking the discarded cloak off the floor. She draped the garment loosely around her shoulders, still allowing easy glimpses at her taut muscles and generous curves.

"Fine. Your vows shall be untested tonight. I have to ask though... You sure you belong in that army?" Thanee asked, picking up her cup. "The others I've bothered to talk to were... greedy or unsavory at best, utter scum at worst." She jabbed her thumb over her shoulder, aimed at the taproom and, likely, his men sitting within.

"That's a question I've been asking myself a lot lately," Conall grumbled. "I truly wonder how someone hopes to unite the Old Kingdom with scum like Reece and the others. They are vultures or worse." He reached for the bottle to refill his cup.

"Why are you still serving him then?" Thanee asked, pouring the drink.

Conall sighed. "If I had only myself to worry about, I would have left months ago. But I need the regular pay sent to my wife and children and there's a big bag of gold waiting at the end of my tenure, to either restore the farm we've been hanging on for so long or to pack up and find our luck someplace else." He paused, eyeing his cup. "I'm long past righteous causes and grand speeches, just hoping to survive these last three months."

Thanee rose from the chair and went to her knees in front of Conall, pulling the surprised soldier into a fierce hug. "Just be careful your damn principles don't come back to bite you in the ass," she muttered into his hair. The half-orc planted a tender kiss onto his cheek and got back to her feet, a crooked grin on her lips. "I should better go before I truly test your vows," she said. "Good night."

* * * *

"Would you lookit that?" Reece whispered. "A small settlement right out in the open." He pulled a spyglass from his belt and squinted through it. "Sarge, I see maybe half a dozen adults and a few whelps. We don't even need to signal for backup."

Conall wiped his mouth with the back of his glove as he discreetly dropped an empty vial into his pack resting on the ground. He snatched the spyglass from Reece and peeked through, trying to find out what had the unruly scout so excited. The 'settlement' they had stumbled across after a two-day trek through this yet uncharted northern region of the Elven Woods was barely more than a farmstead, with three extra buildings cluttered around it. The forest had been cleared to allow for two small fields and he could spot a few swine and chickens mingle with the elves. The regular dinging of a hammer on metal could be heard.

"We're not going to attack these people, Reece," he growled softly. "Does this appear like somewhere you'd hide a priceless elven relic like a Dragon Stone?"

"No idea, sir," Reece said. "But could you, in good conscience, pass up a chance to ask the locals if they know anything about said relic? These blighters grow up to be a thousand years of age, they must have heard songs, legends or some such. I say we go and ask them, real nice. You don't want any of the boys to talk to Major Grenthal and complain about your lack of thoroughness, now do ya?"

There was a soft murmur of approval behind them. Conall lowered the spyglass and eyed his men. Liam and Stokey leered, caressing their crotches or weapons expectantly. Stilty eyed him calmly, the shiny corporal pin on his cloak's shoulder reflecting an errant ray of sunlight like a miniature, winking eye. Bokney's face was as unreadable as ever and Conall found it hard to gauge the giant hunk of muscle. Of all the rabble under his command, Bokney was the biggest puzzle and Conall hoped he wouldn't turn out to be a bigger headache than Reece. Ever since his encounter with Thanee, Reece barely allowed a chance to go to waste to question Conall's authority or try to incite dissent in the ranks.

Conall sighed, coming to a decision.

"Fine. Reece, you and Stokey are with me. Liam, Bokney and Stilty, you take up covering positions there, there and there," he ordered, pointing out three good sniping spots. "You are only to shoot if I give the order, understood?"

The three men grinned and nodded in unison, then quietly dispersed to their assigned positions. Conall rose, brushing dirt and branches off his legs, and headed towards the small settlement, his two men in tow.

"Hands off your weapons," Conall hissed. "We're only here to talk after all."

"Sure, boss," Reece whispered. "Nice and easy does it." He made a show of draping his cloak over the hilt of his hatchet.

By now the elves had spotted them. There was hushed chattering in their melodious language and the women and children retreated into the largest building. Two men approached. The sound of the smithy subsided and Conall saw a third elf cross the yard, casually pulling a spear from a rack as he went.

"To what do we owe the pleasure?" one of the elves asked, a tall, graceful fellow with long, golden hair and sharp, angular features. He didn't carry any visible weapons, not even a dagger, on his person. "We heard black cloaks were skulking in our woods but actually seeing you is a rare occurrence. Are you lost? Do you need help? Medicine maybe?"

"Are ye fuckin' serious? Nobody told you how dangerous we are?" Reece snarled. Conall stepped backwards, making sure his heel found the toe of Reece's boot.

"Greetings. I am Sergeant Conall, in the employ of Lord Carver's army. My men and I are searching for information in your fair woods," he said. "Maybe you have heard something worth sharing. If so, we're more than happy to leave you be once we've talked."

By now, the spear-wielding smith had joined them. Compared to the two others standing before them, his bare-chested form was much more muscular, a clear testament to his chosen profession.

"What kind of information could a few simple farmers like us have?" the golden-haired elf asked, not unfriendly. "I am Faraan Calantir. My kin and I toil the fields, chop wood and forge some arms, armor and other metal goods. We are the oddballs out here while everyone else seems to have turned into feral hunters of your kind."

"So you are aware of the Stalkerites?" Reece snapped. "Or are you only playin' at bumpkins while your friends are hidin' in the trees, waitin' for yer signal to shoot us down?"

"Reece, shut up!" Conall snarled. "I apologize for his foul temper."

"Rest assured that we don't mean you any harm," Faraan said. "House Calantir has prided itself of being far removed from any kind of politicking. Our forbears have played at grand meddling and we are still paying the price for their failures. As such, we have refused to throw our lot in with the Stalker's fangs."

"You have been banished from the holds?" Conall asked, genuinely intrigued.

"Our sentence should have long expired by now but, so far, we have seen no reason to return to our former home either. The forest is good to us and what little we produce finds thankful new owners, over at the 'Dancing Dryad' or elsewhere."

"One more question then we'll be on our way," Conall said. "Do you know anything about an item called a Dragon Stone? Maybe where we could find one?"

Faraan laughed, a merry, tinkling sound. "Yes, Dragon Stones are known to us. But I'm afraid you won't be able to just 'take' them, not unless you happen to have the strength of a wyrm or other means of transporting a massive stone pillar yay tall." He reached way above his head.

"I think I've heard enough," Reece said, grinning. "Too bad Conall got shot by the Stalkerites lying in ambush. I'll regretfully inform Grenthal of your passing." He raised his hand and made the sign for "open fire."

"What are you talking about, Reece?" Conall barked, his gaze snapping from Faraan's confused face to his soldier's leer. Before Reece could say anything, a searing pain lanced up Conall's leg. He gazed down, only to spot a green-fletched arrow protruding from his thigh. The struck limb seized up and refused to bear his weight. Another arrow hit his shoulder, probably meant for his neck but diverted as Conall crumpled to the ground. The other one whistled past his ear and grazed Faraan's shoulder, causing the tall elf to gasp in pain as the poison coating the arrowhead seeped into his blood.

"Stalkerites!" Reece yelled gleefully, hatchet at the ready. The spear-wielding elf parried his attack but found himself at a sudden disadvantage when Stokey added his wildly flailing, unpredictable swings into the proceedings. Conall, writhing on the ground in agony, could only watch helplessly as Bokney and Liam joined the fray, mercilessly cutting down the three elves.

"My, what a disaster, being ambushed by the Stalkerites," Stilty whispered, kneeling above Conall. The smirking half-elf dropped a few broken arrows with green fletching around the prone sergeant. "Thanks for the promotion," he added, rising. "I'll make sure to repay Reece in kind when the time is right."

Whistling merrily, Stilty headed for the main building, his hatchet twirling in his hand. Gasping for air, Conall willed his arm forward, trying to crawl after the traitorous scum. His fingers clawed at the blood-soaked dirt but, no matter how much he fought, his body refused to obey. His vision dimmed fast, overwhelmed by the searing pain seeping through his blood. He could hear the panicked screams of the elven women as his squad mates began to chop at the farmstead's door.

Then the pain took him.

* * * *

I am a bloody idiot.

The thought streaked through his clouded mind.

No way was Reece taking the humiliation lying down. I wouldn't have either.

Another spark, painfully slow, carried the thought.

Still, turning the whole bloody squad against me... that's... impressive.

His consciousness bobbed on the torrent of pain like a cork in a wind-tossed lake. Each laborious breath sounded like the roar of a choking giant, bringing scarce air for his burning lungs to work with. The stench of spilled blood and mud was clogging his nostrils and the agony! It was all-consuming, every nerve in his body was on fire.

I'm not dead yet. They say only the dead feel no pain and by Mercy's tits, it fucking hurts!

His hand moved, a feeble twitch digging his fingers into the sucking mud.

"Ah, so you're not dead just yet?" Conall didn't know the voice but it sounded elven. Smooth, melodious and laced with unspeakable amounts of disdain. "I was wondering if you were worth a healing potion or a shallow grave but your gasp answered that question before either of us could could rue my decision."

There was the soft rustling of fabric, then a disgusted snickering. "No true Stalkerite would use bloody broadheads to apply poison. Bloodflow flushes the poison right out again. Fucking amateurs." There was movement and the sound of leather being cut. "I will hurt you now. My apologies."

Before Conall could muster enough willpower to move his lips or tongue, there was a searing pain, stronger and more radiant than the inferno consuming his being, radiating out from his thigh, followed by another, lesser jolt from his left shoulder. Only a feeble wheeze left his throat as the stranger turned him onto his back.

"Please don't ruin my efforts and avoid choking on the potion," the stranger cooed, pressing the opening of a vial between his lips. Before Conall could protest, a clumpy, bitter liquid poured into his mouth. Conall could choose between choking and swallowing. More on instinct than any conscious choice on his part, he did the latter, forcing the horrible goop down his gullet. The pain relented somewhat.

He opened his mouth and drew a long, shuddering breath. His eyes fluttered open. In the gray twilight of dusk, he saw a strange visage loom over him. Inky, glossy hair hung down to the stranger's neck and what seemed like scales covered his neck. The face, a mask frozen in a perpetual scowl, had been disfigured with dark, triangular markings and a painted-on maw with sharp teeth going from ear to ear. The eyes were dark pools, unreadable save for a flicker of curiosity.

"Who... are you?" Conall croaked, trying to fight into a sitting position despite the vertigo assaulting him.

"I'm the knight in forest camouflage who saved your ass, my black-cloaked mystery," the stranger said. Strong, sure hands steadied Conall until he had his bearings. "Name's Gael. The pigs raping defenseless women and children in there... friends of yours?"

Conall followed Gael's jab of the thumb. The farmstead sat dark and quiet save for two rooms in the main building. He was glad he couldn't hear anything past the rush of blood in his ears.

"No. Never." He tried to stand but whatever potion Gael had given him didn't grant him that much strength. His arm nearly buckled under his own weight.

"Not your friends but your subordinates then. How would you feel if I went in there and murdered them for their crimes?" Gael's visage distorted into one of unbridled bloodlust.

"I wish I could stand then I'd be right there with you," Conall growled. "In case you didn't notice, the bastards backstabbed me."

Gael pressed another vial into Conall's hand, a sharp-ridged vessel with a slender stopper. "Stand then and take your revenge, my friend. While you're the raging beast, I'll be your shadow. And mark my words, no one shall get the better of you this time."

"What is this?" Conall asked, fighting to get the stopper off the vial.

"That? Something my sister brews. Calls it 'Orc Blood.' Believe me, it will do you good, for an hour or two."

"And afterwards? Will I die?"

"Do you want to?" Gael's grin teetered between horrifying and playful.

"Not until I've made sure every last traitor lies dead at my feet," Conall growled, tearing off the stopper with a sudden jerk. He poured the liquid down his throat. Infernal heat exploded in his stomach and radiated out in waves, eventually suffusing his body and taking all aches, all weakness, all hesitation with it.

Shuddering, the betrayed sergeant came to his feet. He hadn't felt so... whole, so alive in months. He scanned the ground. The three dead elves still remained where his men... his former men had cut them down. His weapons had vanished, probably taken by Stilty. No matter, Conall thought, heading towards the tree line.

"Hey," Gael hissed. "The farm's the other way."

"A moment," Conall retorted. "I need to get something first."

"Suit yourself. But every dead elven maiden is on your conscience." With practiced ease, the disfigured elf pulled a bow off his shoulder.

"I won't be long," Conall whispered, retracing his steps. His pack was where he had dropped it, still open and seemingly untouched. He dug into it, his fingers finding the half-dozen empty antidote vials on the way down.

I'll probably never find a way to properly thank you for saving my life, dear Phentar. Not after tonight.

Near the bottom, hidden under a blanket and ration packs, he found the sword Lothar had given him. It was barely longer than his forearm but had a broad double-edged blade perfect for close quarters skirmishes.

The perfect tool to exact my vengeance, Conall thought grimly. He removed his rank insignia and badges, dropping them into the pack. Sorry Major but enough is enough. I hereby resign.

A long wail cut through the twilight. Conall cursed under his breath and returned to where he had lain in the mud. The farm house had erupted in frantic activity and even through the walls, he could hear Reece's shouts.

Gael was nowhere to be seen but Conall didn't care. He made a beeline for the closest entrance, a ground floor window standing ajar.

He pushed it open and clambered inside, the Orc Blood in his veins making him much more graceful than his battered body should allow. Without making a sound, he crouched on the floorboards, the scent of herbs evoking memories of home, of Deirdre and the twins. He spotted the sorry remains of the front door hanging ajar on a hinge and black cloaks draped haphazardly over the chairs surrounding the large kitchen table. His eyes, already attuned to the gloom inside the kitchen, also saw shards of pottery and a ghastly blood stain near the stairs leading to the rooms above.

His men had wasted little time, going by the pants and boots scattered about. He even saw two hatchets and a bow on the table, forgotten the moment tender flesh could be had.

"Get me a bloody hatchet, a knife, anything with a fuckin' edge, gods damn it!" he heard Reece howl above him. "I'll show that cunt what it means to bite me balls!"

Conall heard loud steps rumble down the stairs. In a flash, he was beside them.

A large shadow bounded into the kitchen, muttering under his breath.

Bokney!

Conall waited until the hunk of muscle was past him, heading for the table and the weapons on it. The naked man stank of sweat and wine and was utterly oblivious, unable to notice Conall until it was already too late. Before he could utter a sound, Conall had clamped his glove over Bokney's mouth and nose while his sword went through his throat, bereaving him of any breath to scream with.

Gurgling helplessly, Bokney crashed to the floor, frantically slapping at his shredded throat while blood sprayed everywhere. Gritting his teeth, Conall ended him with a deft jab through the lung.

Above him, a body hit the floorboards, followed by a chorus of wails and screams.

"Quiet!" Reece shouted. "The next one to yell will get shiv'd!"

"He's not good with people, is he?" Gael's breath brushed Conall's ear. He spun around, blade ready to slash and stab. The disfigured stranger grinned. "I took care of one of them, the twitchy sod. Stumbled around out back, looking for some plants to water. Now he's watering the crops with his blood."