Once again tis time for the adventures of Ragnar Grimfang and his
This is my weekly serial, the first post can be found here.
Last week’s post can be found here.
A helpful guide can be found here.
“Of course,” said Git, reaching into the apron he habitually wore when he expected trouble. A long sweeping garment made of drakescale and reinforced with metal plates, Git’s `utility apron’ ranked among the ugliest pieces of clothing that someone has worn more than once. The drakescales were a patchwork of varying sizes, in varying condition, and from various breeds of drake. There was no discernible pattern to the colours and shapes, and it was covered with pouches, buckles, and buttons. According to Git the drake scales protected him from the elements, and Git always seemed to be able something useful its many compartments.
Git pulled a small globe of white liquid from his pocket.
“Stand back,” he said, rather unnecessarily. “Be ready with your hammer Ragnar.”
Then he tossed the globe against the door. It shattered and the liquid splashed against the metal and wood. I felt the rush of wind, as if from a an explosion, followed quickly by a precipitous drop in temperature. Frost crept outward from the impact, chased by ice. I could hear the frame warping, as if in protest of this violation. Git looked at me expectantly and I stepped forward, raising my hammer.
“Wait!” said Murith. “We don’t know what is on the other side. Let me use my crossbow so you aren’t standing right in the open.”
I nodded and stepped to the side. Murith was right, I would have been easy prey for a line of archers on the other side. Her arbalest twanged. The bolt hit the door with a sound like river ice breaking in spring thaw, along with the screams of metal. Sure enough a volley of bolts lanced through the doors. I wasted no time in charging through the door, figuring that all of the enemy had loosed their weapons.
An armoured figure, big as a half-giant, loomed over me before I could get to the bowmen. I felt that little tingling feeling in the back of my head that signaled the presence of another ascended. I stepped out of the way of a swipe from his two-handed scimitar.
“Lord Torvul, I presume,” I raised my chin defiantly at the Devout Leader.
“You shall not have the honour of meeting our lord in this life,” said the figure. “I am called Varm.”
“I am Ragnar Grimfang, exile of the Shadow Wolf clan,” I returned.
“It is good to know who I am to kill,” said Varm.
As Varm and I circled, Sildus somehow slipped in. I saw the assassin in the shadows as one of the archers fell. A throwing knife perhaps. I was forced to defend myself before I could make sense of it. Varm charged. He was stronger than me, and larger. His armour looked thick. Given time I could wear him down, but time was not on my side.
I ducked to the side, hooking his leg with my pick. Varm tripped, falling toward the tile floor. He did not smash into the ground as I expected, however. Have you ever seen a man in full plate armour roll? It is a simple enough manoueuvre, but made exceptionally difficult by the weight and lack of flexibility of such a suit. Varm managed it, rolling to his feet and sending jumping back with a swipe of his sword before I could close.
“A worthy attempt, northman,” said Varm, his voice jovial. “Only the strong.”
Behind me, Varm’s archers were panicking. I heard a body fall. The twang of Murith’s crossbow. I heard a scream from deeper in the halls. I looked around for a way past Varm.
“Leave him to me Ragnar,” said Renoit, stepping past me.
“You’re sure?” I asked, looking from the duellist to the armoured giant.
Renoit shrugged. “Go!”