[Mkguild] Winter Assault - Murikeer's sections, pt 4

[Ryx]

Part 4


December 26, 2:30pm

“Damn the man to the ninth hell!” someone was yelling outside the shop and
the voice brought Murikeer’s head up with a snap.  He wasted no time in scrambling for the door
to a back storage room rather than risking a peek outside to see if the speaker
was coming toward the shop or not.  He
lamented, again, his lack of even the most basic divination magic as he darted
into the store room and pushed the door shut then pressed himself against the
back wall.  There were enough gaps in the
warped planks of the old door for him to see much of the shop.  Settling himself and waiting he finished
gnawing on the crust of bread he had torn from the loaf left behind on the
serving platter.  He jumped as the door
crashed open loudly, kicked by the foot of the irate speaker.  “He has his orders!  I was given command of this operation, not
he!”

Creeping forward Murikeer moved so he could see through one of the gaps in
the door without putting his face too close to it, swallowing the dry bread
with a muffled choke.  The bellowing man
was clearly a northerner by his garb and gaunt, wind scoured face, as well as a
mage of some considerable strength.  He
stormed into the room and cast off the heavy fur cloak he was wearing nothing
warmer than a shirtless vest and suede leggings beneath, quite unaffected by
the cold.  Another man followed through
close upon his heels wearing not even a concealing fur cloak and the dark blue
velvet robes of a mage practitioner.  His
bald head was heavily tattooed and Murikeer could easily see the tight swirl of
complex spells wrapped about him; protections and wards that, from his distant
vantage, Murikeer could not easily read because of the sheer number of them.  “He was junior to us all, Master, even the
Voice, yet they still chose to attend him.” Hissed the bald man irritably, “He
will have less luck on his own than we had together.”

The first shook his head and strode over to the table without bothering to
add wood to the glowing bed of coals in the hearth.  The second seemed similarly unconcerned about
the cold seeping into the building as the fire faded.  Like Murikeer they had warming charms to hold
back winter’s icy fangs.  They reached
the table and the first man slouched into a heavy wooden chair, “He is not
seeking the Temple.” He groused irritably, snatching up a knife to carve at the
hank of mutton Murikeer had not denuded.  “Too many defenders, he claimed, too strong a defense from both this
thrice bedamned heap of stone and the faithful bearing arms at every
door.”  Leaning back in the chair he
chewed morosely upon the cold meat, “And yet… and yet he believes that he will
join what remains of the dark circle?” he scoffed, “They, too, have
failed.  Without their anchoring spells
the sprit will regain the stones and, no matter how many our Master casts
against it in this ill begotten war, it will become impossible to hold.”

“If it has not already become that, Master.” The bald man supplied as he
stood at the seated mage’s side, hands enfolded in the sleeves of his blue
robes, and he stared down at the table.  “Are you so certain that their power has been broken?”

“You heard the Voice!  Five of their
number have fallen!” barked the first, “Their central foci has been vanquished
and, with it, all of the relays.” He shook his head irritably and gnawed at the
cold mutton in his hand.  “We must make
due for ourselves, Huk, either to find our way out of this trap, or join Selig
and whatever forces he may have left and make an attempt, any attempt, to
regain the advantage.”

“We have a scrying glass, Master, I retain it.  We may contact Nasoj and inform him of our
situation?” the bald man, Huk, said quietly.
The first, yet unnamed, scoffed, “That cursed fool would have but one
response; destroy the Temple, kill the bitch, and get her sword.” He leaned forward
to stab a slab of cheese with his knife and picked up the torn heel of bread
that Murikeer had left upon the table.  He looked at it for a few moments before muttering and throwing it down
as insufficient before biting a piece of cheese.  “Though it be the death of us without Selig’s
giants at our back.  Where in the hells
is that Lutin, anyway?”

“He was with us at the gatehouse, I did not see him when we entered.” Huk
shrugged, “Perhaps the cold is more suitable to him.”

“Gods piss on his corpse.” The man slammed his hand down on the table
causing all of the items upon it to jump and rattle.  “Gods piss on them all, Thorne at the
center!” He stopped and glared at the table, his eyes narrowing.  Huk, as well, stared at the table.  His gaze had never wavered from it.  Slowly the robed mage withdrew one hand from
his sleeves and extended an emaciated finger at something that lay upon it.

“Yes, Master, others have come.  Only
one.” Huk intoned as the first mage picked up the item that had captured his
attention; a slender skinning knife fashioned from blue stone and bone.  Murikeer gaped at his carelessness and
clenched his teeth against the hiss of his own folly.  “Another such as us, I have felt his touch
already, twice.”

The other man jerked a glare up at his second, “And now you choose to say
aught?  Who, and when?” he stood swept
his gaze across the shop, twisting about as if looking to see who had come up
behind him unawares.

“The one whom Thorne tried to cut down in the gallery of stone kings, who has
all of the spirit’s energies at his beck.  Again when Aresor was snatched away from us.” Huk offered, “I saw tracks
in the snow to the door, but only a single path.”  The bald man looked around as well though
with more slow deliberation than his Master.  “He did not leave by that door.”

Spitting unfinished cheese from his mouth the first man threw down the
incriminating knife Murikeer had left to be found, “In this hells cursed place
he could have left through the very stones of the floor and we would not know.”
He growled.  He raised his hands and
began moving them in a complicated gesture as he intoned words of Power.  From his hiding place Murikeer watched them
both with growing dread, they were both competent mages even if they did lack
Kyia’s strength to draw upon.  He knew he
was stronger than both but doubted that his training was even close by
comparison.  Sending out a tendril of his
focus he gave a tweak to the northman’s spell as he wove it and it flared once
before collapsing.  The man jumped in
startlement and let out a bellowing curse, gazing at his hands as if they had
betrayed him.  “He is still here, Suspira
curse him!  Find him, Huk!” Neither had
sensed the light thread of magic that Murikeer had used to unbind the
spell.  Against the near blinding
background of Metamor’s great well of energies he doubted they would even be
able to see any greater magic.

He had been blinded when he first arrived as well but had learned to filter
the radiance of the node energies filling Metamor from his vision.  He moved a little closer to the door and
gathered up a measure of his readied energies into one hand, and watched both
mages.  The bald one, Huk, had moved away
from the table like a stalking cat.  From
the depths of his robes he had drawn a wicked looking curved silver blade that
shown to Murikeer’s magical sight like a blazing torch.  Of the two, though his power was lesser than
the one he called Master, Murikeer accorded him the greater threat.  His discipline seemed to cover all of the
elements whereas the more powerful of the pair appeared to be repeatedly
attempting, and failing, to weave weather powers.  Shifting slightly in his place of concealment
Murikeer waved his free hand toward the hearth.

A shadow rose up from behind the stone, opposite the two mages, and resolved
itself into an illusion of Murikeer with a bow in his hands.  Before that illusion could loose the knocked
arrow, or even half draw the illusionary bowstring, both men reacted.  The first, with an angry shout as he extended
both hands and released the spell Murikeer had let him complete, lashed out
with a blinding thunderbolt that shook the walls of the shop with its deafening
clap.  Murikeer staggered back as the
door to his shelter rattled but remained secure.  Huk lifted but one hand and extended a single
finger to send a sizzling orange bolt of fire at the illusion.  Blinded by the thunderbolt Murikeer could not
create an appropriate illusory death for the fakery and it simply vanished
under the combined assault.  “Illusions??” the Master quipped with a snarling lift of his lips,
“Illusions?”

“Misdirection, Master.” Huk warned with a steely smile, “He must see us to
make illusions, tempting us to expend our power wastefully.”  Slowly the man leaned around a stack of
lumber that awaited use but found no one hiding there.  “I sense no magic of concealment, nor gaze of
divination.”

“I see nothing.” The Master growled, “There is too much brightness upon the
field.”  Muttering under his breath he
motioned with his hands again, preparing another spell, but Murikeer unraveled
it moments before completion earning another furious bellow.  “Oblivion take him!  Huk!”

“There, Master.” The bald mage hissed and Murikeer was barely able to dodge deeper
into the storage room as the door was reduced to splinters with a single
syllable from the northerner’s mouth.  He
tripped backwards and fell painfully on his tail as shattered wood stung
through his fur and crabbed backwards looking for another exit.  Raising the readied spell called to his grasp
he loosed it toward the door and the sound of running feet.  Under the shatter spell the frame was reduced
in the same manner as the door, as was a large portion of the stacked stones in
which it was set, blowing the destroyed remnants outward in a spray of
shrapnel.  Murikeer hastily called
another shatter spell, one he had only recently learned from Rickkter after
watching him use it to considerable effect in the Chapel months earlier, and
dove behind a stack of wood as the bald mage charged through the door.
He could hear the bald mage intoning a rapid series of clipped syllables in
the Lutin language and a moment later the entire room burst into flame.  Wooden planks and half finished furniture
were sent crashing against the far wall in a thunderous symphony of sundering
wood.  Much of the stack behind which
Murikeer had hidden was stripped, sailing over his head and smashing against
the far wall within a torrent of flame.  Before the initial flame burst had died down Murikeer leaped to his feet
and yanked at the bald man’s spell recklessly, causing the mage to burst into
flames with a startled cry.  Only his
personal protections saved him from self-immolation but he reeled back in
surprise nonetheless, clearing the door for Murikeer’s headlong charge from the
burning storage room.

He elbowed Huk in the face as the man busied himself shedding the remnants
of flame scorching his blue robes and dove aside behind the hearth as the
inside of the shop was once more rent by the crackling roar of thunder.  Even out of its direct path Murikeer felt the
numbing sear of energies racing through his limbs and collapsed in pain.  He forced himself through it, teeth clenched
and bared behind lips pulled back in a feral snarl, and scampered around
beneath the protective height of the circular hearth as he heard the Master
weaving another spell.  Raising his head
briefly he focused on the man and, instead of unweaving his spell, sent a surge
of his own energies into it.  Unable to
sustain the additional power the man aborted the spell before it fed
uncontrollably back into him and cursed.

“He’s an unweaver, Huk!” he bellowed and snatched a sword that Murikeer had
not seen from a sheath barely large enough for a dirk strapped to his
belt.  Like Huk’s evil curved blade it
shone with an unhealthy radiance to Murikeer’s sight.  “Don’t bespell the son of a bitch, cut him
down!”  Murikeer stood and ran for the
door but something hard struck the back of his head a stunning blow and he
staggered under the blow.  With a shake
of his head he turned and shimmied behind one of the racks of planks missing a
deadly sweep of the Master’s sword by a handspan.  The magically enhanced sword sundered the
beam supporting the shelf and it began to lean precipitously, forcing the man
to retreat before it collapsed upon him.

Murikeer loosed his retained shatter spell at him from behind the protection
of the listing shelf but saw its energies envelop a protective shield, wavering
it heavily but failing to breach its protections.  He reached out for Metamor’s energies again
and felt them surge into him with alacrity, no longer held by whatever magic
had been binding it earlier.  A blinding
pain stabbed at his skull behind his eyes and he bit back a hiss of pain,
pouring the renewed energy into more spells.  Rather than a single overwhelming magic he sent a fusillade of minor
bolts searing around the shop like a swarm of angry bees to strike at both
attackers madly.  Most simply dissolved
against magical shields but a few scored, staggering the men as they grunted
under the stinging pain.  None of the
bolts was, of themselves, lethal but they made the concentration required to
summon more spells almost impossible.

Both fell back to renew their embittered shields and Murikeer emerged from
the far end of the shelves, sidling along the back wall of the shop, “I only
want Thorne.” He spat in an animalistic growl as he faced the pair who now
blocked the door.  “Him I will flense
alive, you are of no concern to me.”
The Master glanced at his second a moment before he barked a laugh and
flourished his sword, “You are an enemy, beast, and as such you are our concern.”  He raised one hand and motioned toward
Murikeer but his intended spell failed upon inception and Murikeer merely
leered toothily at him having ripped it asunder at the first basic call.

“I am not blinded by the power of this place, stranger.  I see your magic as you bring it forth and it
is not immune to being touched.” He growled, continuing to circle along the
back wall, his hands casting about for anything he could use as a weapon.  “Nasoj sends you here to perish.” He drawled
in that low bestial growl that had become of his voice, “His failures,
incompetents, or you are just too ambitious for his liking.  Either way, you are here to die.”  He shrugged expansively, jerking his
attention to Huk as he saw the tendrils of magic wrapping about him anew.  He studied the layers of spells upon the man
and smiled, slowly extending one hand, fingers splayed.  “See how you fare against the lowest of
Metamor’s mages!” he snarled, closing his hand into a fist and twisting
savagely.  Huk let out a startled cry as
the complex layers of protective spells he had woven about himself were
twisted, yanked into a hopeless tangle that begin interfering with itself.  He jerked and twitched as the chaos of magic
began to feed back into him uncontrolled.  None would be fatal; after all, the magic crashing back into him was no
more than he had put into them initially, but it would be far from comfortable.

“Death will not be at your hands, beast.” The Master grunted though he did
cast a sidelong glance at his grunting, twitching second.  Murikeer could sense that his resolve was
wavering but his back was against a wall.  He could attempt, and perhaps succeed, at killing Murikeer but he had
already proclaimed their cause lost.  He
could flee, but if he survived the failed assault and returned to Nasoj he
would be seen as a coward.  That left him
but a single recourse; fight or die.  Fight
and die, as far as the skunk was concerned.  Reaching the table he snatched up the bluestone dagger that had betrayed
him and, flipping it swiftly in his hand, sent it spinning through the air.  The Master twisted himself hastily and threw
up a warding hand but the spinning blue blur would have missed him by a wide
margin nonetheless.

Huk let out a strangled cry of pain and lurched back before toppling fully
in a heap of singed blue robes.

The man gaped as his partner fell and by the time he turned back around it
was only to see a heavy wooden framing clamp, snatched up from the far side of
the room by Murikeer’s desperate magical grasp, hurtle the last few inches
before impacting with his face.  Unlike
the hapless bald mage he never even managed a pained grunt before collapsing.

Panting heavily and hanging his head Murikeer clutched the side of the
serving table and reeled.  His head was
pounding and his body still felt as if it were a carpet hung out and beaten by
overly muscular chamber maids.  After a
few moments he levered himself upright and padded over to the fallen Master to
examine the results of his final stand.  He could still see that the man’s chest rose and fell; he had not
succeeded in killing him.  That was all
the better.  Though they had told him
much before discovering that Murikeer was eavesdropping he would learn more of
Thorne from the man once he awoke.
Interrogation of the weather mage, unfortunately, would have to wait.

“I was curious how long they would last against you, mage.” Growled a Lutin
voice in poorly accented common.  Murikeer lurched to a halt and looked toward the door to find a Lutin
standing within, arms crossed upon his chest.  *Jizzah, break him, but do not kill.  Let us savor his death.*
Murikeer reeled back against the hearth as a white blur bounded into the
room from the Lutin’s side and lunged toward him with a flash if deadly
shark-like teeth.

Hastily thrusting out his hands Murikeer pushed with a panicked kinetic
thrust but the creature passed through it unaffected, bowling him over backward
across the circular hearth.  Razor edged
teeth seized the arm hastily interposed between its jaws and the skunk’s
throat.  He let out a pained, startled
yowl as the ghost white hound’s teeth tore into the flesh of his arm.  Searing heat bit into his back as he sprawled
across the hearth under the beast’s weight, obliterating thought in a blinding
fog of agony and terror.  He seized the
muscular white throat with his unfettered hand and clenched even as he writhed
in a futile attempt to escape the heat of the hearth.  The hound made not a sound as it bore the
weight of its body down upon him, its already blood stained muzzle freshened
with a new source of the scarlet red brightness.

Murikeer felt a moment of mind numbing terror, a momentary suspension of
time before the beast slammed into him, and realized that he faced his own
death in the moon dog’s pale white eyes.  He only had his magic to fight and defend with and, in the face of the
naturally magic resistant hound, he had nothing but his own flesh and strength
to face the creature with.  That clarity
of understanding fled away under a tsunami of agony; both from the edges of the
moon dog’s teeth sawing through fur and flesh and grinding upon bone as well as
the piercing bites of burning coals.  Arching his back, his shoulders pushing down into the fresh tongues of
flame consuming his fur, he brought up his legs and raked at the moon dog’s
tough hide.  The species forced upon him
by Metamor’s curse came with a full array of digging claws and their sharp
edges dug deeply at the beast, opening long streaks of bright red along its
stomach and flanks.   He tried to tighten
his grip upon the throat, digging the stout claws of his hands into the flesh,
but the creature merely gave a powerful shake of its head, wholly ignoring his
weak grasp.  Murikeer yowled in agony
and, planting his feet between the beast’s splayed rear legs, shoved upward
with the last of his fast draining strength.

His legs had carried him hundreds of leagues from the kingdom of Sathmore,
over the mountains east of Metamor, and deep into the north.  They had never known the convenience of a
steed nor the fatigue of leagues covered in a single day.  In the face of that toughened endurance,
driven by a purely panicked animal survival instinct, a couple of hundred
pounds of hound was a pittance.  His feet
thrust its haunches up and pushed it forward over his head.  Releasing his arm the moon dog twisted about
with feline grace to land upon its paws on the far side of the hearth.  Before it could spin about and make another
leap Murikeer rolled to his feet and took the only avenue of escape his panic
fogged brain could find; straight up the gaping gullet of the chimney flue.

Trailing his ravaged arm Murikeer dug his claws into the rough, creosote
stained stones of the chimney and scrambled into the smoke filled darkness
weeping in searing agony.  His back was
smoking and blood poured in a steady flood from the shredded muscles of his
arm.  Below him the hound twisted about
and surged into the hearth as if unphased by the searing bite of the flames,
leaping up and catching his tail in its deadly jaws.  In comparison to the pain of his arm and back
the weight hanging from his tail was inconsequential and he could only snarl
and dig his claws into the stone.  Creosote rained down around him while the hound shook savagely at its
new grip.  After only a few seconds fur
and flesh failed under the heavy thrashing and the hound fell away.  Freed from is weight Murikeer feebly pulled
himself a few feet higher into the flue, weeping in pain and panting despite
the hot smoke surrounding him.

“Nice throw, beast.” Came a rough voice from below him after a few
moments.  Murikeer twisted to look down
but the hound and its master were not in sight.  He looked up and saw a dim ring of light some distance above.  “Took stupid mage in eye.”  The Lutin, aware that his prey was trapped,
seemed to be in no hurry to complete the task of killing him.  “Keletikt is dead, yes.”

Murikeer’s brows furrowed and he rested the back of his head against the
warm black sludge of the creosote and soot lined chimney stones to gather his
wits.  Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he
plucked at the magic around him and stitched it laboriously together to push
back the sharpest edges of his pain.  Compounding that spell as the gnawing agony faded to a distant, dull
throb he focused on slowing the steady flood of lifeblood spewing from the
tattered muscle of his forearm.  Even in
the flame-lit glow of the chimney he could see the pale white glow of bone in
the depths of the wound.

“Do you hear me, feller of towers?  Your friend is dead!” the Lutin snarled from below.  “The clan cast him into the Maw.”  Hissing through his teeth against the pain
fogging his magical sight and consuming his already flagging strength Murikeer
tried not to cough at the biting heat of the smoke.  Below him he could hear the Lutin and moon
dog moving about, circling the hearth.  He could feel the terror magic of the moon dog radiating from it in
frustrated waves.  Abruptly the Lutin’s
head appeared below and looked up at him as it waved the blue stone dagger in
one hand tauntingly.  “Come down, beast.”
He coaxed, “I waited to find you, yes.  Feller of towers would be foe worthy of a clan warrior.”  The Lutin’s head disappeared from sight.  “Yes, I there was, seeing towers fall.  Your dead female I fought, but escaped she
did.”  Something hissed across the hearth
causing Murikeer to start.  Wood shavings
from some waste bucket sparked and flared into hungry flame.  “Days to recover from rock she struck with,
lucky she-devil.  Jizzah sorry not to
kill.”

Eyes watering at the fresh roil of smoke billowing into the chimney Murikeer
looked up at the dim ring of light above and wondered if he would reach it
before he suffocated or burned.  Bracing
his back against the smut of the stone Murikeer edged upward with both feet and
one arm.  Though he had staunched the
blood of his injuries he would not be able to knit the shredded flesh without
considerable rest in a safe place.

“Saw you,” the Lutin continued, throwing a handful of half-finished
furniture pieces onto the growing flames, “in cave, with traitor Keletikt, with
female 

beast mage Thorne struck with skybolt.”  Again the Lutin leaned over the hearth to look up into the chimney.  “Come down, beast, Hizpeth to you
speak!”  Peering into the shadows he
could see nothing and that only caused him to chuckle with some strange Lutin humor.  “More one way smoke rats from cave, is.”  A heap of table and chair legs was tossed
onto the fire below.

Murikeer gagged at the choking smoke and coughed.  Darkness swam at the edges of his vision that
had nothing to do with the smut blackened shadows of the chimney around
him.  The soot he shook loose only added
to the fire below.  The heat of it was
beginning to singe his fur as he struggled to pull himself higher.  At the top of the chimney he found an iron
hood held in place by four slender risers that had been thrust into the
un-mortared stone.  Prizing them loose,
as they were not fixed in place, was a simple task and with a pained grunt he
shoved the cover out of the way.  He
pulled himself up through the mouth of the chimney and, bracing his foot-claws
against the stonework within, leaned on the lip of the chimney with his good
arm while he cradled the savaged arm against his breast.  He gulped in the biting cold of winter air.

A shadowy shape moved from below the eaves but, through the thickness of the
steadily falling snow Murikeer could only make out a vague form.  “Go nowhere you have!” the Lutin yelled from
below, “Come down, face Hizpeth!”

Murikeer lifted one corner of his muzzle in a furious snarl at the taunting
Lutin.  Another shape appeared at the
eaves, white against white but for the scarlet streaking its muzzle and flanks,
as the moon dog reappeared.  The thick
snow upon the roof gave way beneath it and both spilled from the eaves.  Murikeer reached out for the magic around him
but he could only master a meager ghost of his earlier strength.  Too much of his control was being used to
keep the pain at bay and staunch his injuries.  Tracing runes into the soot blackened snow accumulating on the lip of
the chimney the young mage supplemented his lessened strength with the fixed
anchor of the construct.  He had only a
few moments respite to prepare before the moon dog made another attempt to
mount the roof where the snow had been cleared.

Against the dark shale tiles it was very easy to see and the moment its
slender form appeared Murikeer focused his will into the runes while he thrust
outward with his uninjured hand.  Tiles
rose from the roof and skated downward in a swift clatter toward the moon dog
as, below the eaves, the front wall rumbled at the fresh magical assault.  Already weakened by the earlier duel between
mages and Murikeer’s failed defensive spell the stacked stones could withstand
no more assaults.  With a roar the entire
front wall of the building collapsed outward across the snow and sent the Lutin
scrambling back.  Roof beams, suddenly
bereft of the wall that had supported them, cracked thunderously and the front
half of the roof fell inward upon itself.  Murikeer scrambled hastily from the chimney as it began to list toward
the expanding hole.  Half sliding, half
falling, he scrambled along the peak of the roof while behind him the chimney
tipped and, in a shower of stones and flame, crumbled into the remnants of the
shop.

With the added pitch of the front half of the roof’s collapse the entire
weight of snow that had rested upon it sloughed away in an avalanche of
white.  Murikeer splayed with a pained
cry as he was pitched into the falling heap of white and half buried when he
reached the ground.  Before he could
regain his senses a small but powerful hand grasped his upper arm and heaved
him up from the snow.  The Lutin before
him stood a head shorter than he but massed easily as much with more breadth of
shoulder.  He was garbed in a simple vest
of fur trimmed leather laced with dangling fetishes made from all manner of
items.  Stone beads, bone, feathers, and
other oddments clacked and clattered as it moved.  Baggy leggings were stuffed into heavy winter
boots and in his free hand the Lutin held a sword etched with glowing purple
runes.

Reeling under the smaller demi-human’s strength Murikeer found something
thrust into his uninjured hand; the blood stained blue stone blade.  “Come!” he crowed triumphantly after ensuring
that Murikeer would not drop the blade or collapse from his injuries, “Die like
warrior!”  He turned and paced away while
his ghost white companion moved off a short distance and sat in the snow.  Its jaws hung open and a blue tongue lolled
from its narrow, blood stained muzzle as it watched with purely canine
glee.  “No fate off hand for beast.” He
chuckled with a flourish of his magic imbued blade.  Dimly Murikeer reciognized the runes giving
the polished steel strength, speed, and a preternaturally sharp edge that could
not be dulled short of anything but the blade of a god.

Against that the paltry blade of polished blue stone was a paltry joke.  Murikeer swayed where he stood, pushed to the
limits of his endurance and beyond.  Barely contained pain fogged his every thought as he poured as much
magic as he could grasp into maintaining the spells.  He swayed a pace and looked from the Lutin to
its beast and back.  “What hand of fate?”
he choked past the smoky dryness itching in his throat.  “Just bring that sword and be done.” He
motioned at the Lutin with his puny blade.

“How summon Ghost Horde, you, yes?  From stone house?” the Lutin scoffed as he circled lazily.

“What ghost horde?” Murikeer snarled irritably as he looked for some avenue
of escape.  Once the Lutin bored with his
taunting the fight would be over before Murikeer could raise even a token
resistance.

“Stupid, humans stupid are.” Hizpeth shook his head ruefully.  Murikeer saw a motion from the livery that
was now behind the Lutin; a huge hulking silhouette detached itself from the
shadowy depths of the open doors.  “Lutin
prophecy, stupid mage.  Less think you we
are, eh?  Less than manlings?”

Murikeer raised his paltry weapon to point it at the Lutin, “You are less.”
He goaded as he staggered forward a pace.  His head swam and he felt his balance beginning to waver but still
managed to keep his feet.  Slowly he
moved to one side to put the grinning moon dog between himself and the
Lutin.  He just hoped the towering,
vaguely humanoid shadow standing before the stables was not some ally to the
Lutin.  He could clearly recall how the
gate had been torn from its huge hinges and that he had spied giants among the
Lutins in previous encounters.  He
figured he would fare only slightly better if he faced off with the Lutin.  “Nasoj’s meat shields is all your kind
are.  Even a single human can slaughter
you out of hand.” He shook his head slowly as he lurched through the deep
snow.  “When you’re not too busy killing
each other.”  Extending a single finger
from the bone hilt of the dagger he loosed a puny arcane bolt.

Hizpeth merely waved one hand and the bolt spent itself upon a simple shield.  He shook his head, “Worthy foe, think I.” he
sighed and tightened his grasp upon his sword as he paced forward with a wave
of the gleaming steel.  “Waste, letting
spend self on inferior mages.  Powerful,
was you.”

“Was.” Murikeer chuffed angrily, “You are not Thorne, you are not worthy to
do more than just cut me down.  Come with
you!” he gritted his teeth against fresh waves of pain as he used some of the
precious magic holding back the agony to spatter a few ineffective spells
against the Lutin’s shields.  Hizpeth
moved up to stand beside his moon dog and leered triumphantly at Murikeer.  “Come on!” the skunk challenged with a
flourish of his anemic stone blade, “If you want to keep me from bringing this
horde of yours, come and cut me down!”

The moon dog stood and moved forward a pace as Hizpeth hefted his sword,
“Talk done, now, weak human.” He observed with a shrug, “Speak Keletikt me of,
in he –“ whatever he meant to say before he dealt a killing blow upon his foe
was cut off when a massive weight came down upon him with enough force to send
snow up from the point of impact like a gyser tinged with blood.  The moon dog uttered some breathless sound
and spun at the ground shuddering impact but the object merely swept sideways
in a vicious arc that took in the startled white hound and hurtled it away with
a crunch of bone.  Murikeer did not see
where it landed, his attention was on the towering giant standing a few paces
behind where the Lutin had been driven into the ground.

“Bruug’s home.” The giant snorted flatly in a booming baritone as it gazed
down at Murikeer, “Lutins no come to Bruug’s home.” Upon the giant’s breast was
a soiled tabard sporting the crest of Metamor’s watch.  Murikeer felt a giddy relief in his chest and
almost laughed but before he could utter it darkness swam up and pulled him
down.


      

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