Apostles of Doom

At least Völund had not said the blades were magical. Tal Gor frowned. However, given that the staff was forged in the Abyss by Völund the Smith, he who had forged Arthur’s Caliburn (as well as Durandal and Gram, which would be reforged as Regin, not to mention the walking, talking sword golem, Ruiden), it was probably not safe to assume the very sharp, double-edged blade was not magical. He would need to be very careful.

Tal Gor rocked his staff on its large metal ball mace base in its holding cup, placing the very long staff at arms’ length to inspect it once more. Not that he had not spent a tremendous amount of time doing just that, as well as practicing with it over the last week or so. It was truly a work of mastery, from its mace base to the ornately carved unknown wood of the haft, inlaid with fine strands of metal leading to his handholds. From those smooth handholds, the staff split into two paths, creating a circular region, into which his summoning stone was firmly clamped. The outer edges of the circle were lined with sharp teeth of some metal he was not familiar with. When the two paths rejoined, twisting back into a single piece of wood, it went a short distance before widening, with the blue sapphire mana pool embedded through the haft. About four inches past the sapphire, the haft was mounted with a large, double-edged, two-foot-long metal blade. In all, the staff was a good twelve feet long from end to end, over five feet taller than Tal Gor.

The blade and the base of the mace were etched, but the etching did not appear to be runes. Some of the carvings and metal twinings, however, he thought could be runes. He had studied it with his shaman sight, but nothing had proved conclusive, particularly since he had bound and started charging the mana pool before truly studying the staff. In hindsight, that had been a mistake, but short of draining the pool, he could not easily separate the mana he had imbued in the staff from what might have been there before.

Of course, after four thousand years, runes or magic in the staff could have discharged, and by recharging it, he may have reactivated its magic. He was not sure. If only he’d had a better teacher than Horrgus. Someone who didn’t spend half their time drunk and the other half glarghvosted.

A shout from Didar An Sep brought his attention around towards where she was pointing westerly, towards Fierd. Tal Gor darkened his Eagle Sight to be able to see better against the glare. There they were, advancing with Fierd at their backs to hide their approach. It was still hard to count, but there appeared to be perhaps three dozen mounted riders. Tal Gor began tightening down his staff, so that he could switch to his crossbow.

Kirak Doth Far laughed. “Hah! I count only forty riders and their mounts, where as we are eleven warriors, five mounted D’Wargs and four now more lightly loaded D’Wargs!”

Didar An Sep shook her head. “Forty combat units to fifteen of ours? They must have a death wish!”

Zargvarst chuckled loudly. “In that case, I shall borrow a phrase from the djinn: their wish is our command!” He motioned the party to start heading towards the alvar.

Zerg Fel Far, who was also a first generation D’Orc, shook his head. “These must be younger elves who have never fought D’Orcs before. Otherwise they would not be so foolish.”

Nagh Felwraith spoke up. “Perhaps they have a wizard or animage to help put up a fight?”

Didar An Sep shrugged. “We can hope.”

Tal Gor glanced at his brother as they both began tightening their crossbow strings. From the worried expressions they shared, he was certain his brother was no more optimistic than he was. In recent decades, it was all their tribe could manage to hold their own while evenly matched against alvaran forces on land. He glanced to his sister as well; Soo An was looking grim, but determined. Of his tribe, only Elgrid RageWracker seemed to be enthused.

Tal Gor chortled bleakly to himself. Elgrid was arguably the only member of their band who was enthusiastic; the D’Orcs seemed disappointed. He supposed it helped to be immortal and know that even if you were killed, you would simply reappear in the Abyss. His tribe did not have that luxury.

Zargvarst glanced back and noted the concerned expressions on the four orcs’ faces. He nodded. “I know you are all anxious to both improve and demonstrate your warrior skills on D’Wargback, but please remember that the D’Wargs are as battle starved as we D’Orcs, so I would ask that you not take all the fun for yourselves. Share the slaughter, allow the D’Wargs some kills. They know how to fight with riders on their backs; simply present a smaller, tighter, target on their back and give them their head as opportunity presents itself.”