Defense of Garson Town

Firelight danced across the pages of the book Staark Crusher held in his hands. The tiny letters were hard to make out--the book hadn't been written with his kind in mind--but he could understand the words. "Chaos is to be abhorred in our lives. In all things, order must be preserved. A righteous man upholds his bargains--even those spoken in haste or ignorance." What would a world of such men be like? Staark remembered his mother's death when she had attacked his father's younger female. Whatever such a world would be like, it was not like anything Staark had known.

The crack of a broken branch alerted Staark to something approaching and he sprung into action. He leaped to his feet and kicked dirt over his fire. Grabbing his sword and stuffing his book into his pack, he moved back into the shadow of the small overhang he had been sheltering in and hid behind a boulder.

He could hear footsteps approaching and the jingle of armor. It must be another patrol of those blasted little purple men. Three weeks had passed since the purple clad soldiers had crept into his unit's encampment and slaughtered them. Whatever they had to say in Dorakka, the war wasn't going well.

The footsteps stopped. A series of guttural noises came from the other side of the boulder. Staark didn't understand it but he knew orc speech when he heard it. A traitor perhaps. An orc tracking down stragglers and spies for the purple men in exchange for his own hide?

"I can't understand your blood hatchet speech. Tell me in the common tongue, did the big lout come here or by Iuz, I'll smite you." Another voice. So it wasn't the purple men. Staark felt a strange pang of disappointment. Perhaps they would have agreed to let him live. Or perhaps he could have kept one of them alive. It might have been interesting to talk with them.

"Garn, any fool can see this campfire was just put out--the twigs are smoldering from the heat. He's here I tell you." The first voice again--this time speaking common. So it was his own side. Staark was sure he didn't want to be found by them. The Old One was not known for his mercy to deserters or survivors--that encouraged laxity in the ranks and cowardice in battle.

"Come out, Ogre. The Old One has an offer for you." Well, it was no good thinking about it now. He'd either live or he wouldn't. Slinging his spiked shield onto his left arm and drawing the sword he'd taken from that ridiculously dressed human, Staark straightened up to his full nine feet of height and stepped out from behind the boulder.

Three orcs were standing at his campfire. Two of them were lightly armed but the third wore the symbol of the skull, which marked him as a full-fledged Priest of the Old One. The priest spoke again: "A deserter I see. You know the penalties for desertion. . . ."

"You said you had an offer," replied Staark. "Make it now or we can skip your ceremonies and get on with the killing. I've no time for you threats." He moved closer, hoping to be able to strike the priest before the orc could call upon his powers to strip the flesh from Staark's bones. He remembered seeing that in Dorakka--a human deserter strapped to a frame in the square. The priests had flayed the skin from his flesh and he screamed until his throat bled. They had kept that man alive for a month before he died. Staark was not going to let that happen to him.

The priest stepped back out of Staark's reach and the two orcs next to him tightened their grip on their weapons. "Come with us and I will take you into my service," he said. That was unexpected. "You will fight for me. We will gather more warriors and strike down the enemies of the Old One. You will live until your skill fails you and you fall to the purple men's swords. Refuse and I will destroy you where you stand."

Staark considered the offer. It certainly wasn't what he expected. On the other hand, "A righteous man upholds his bargains--even those spoken in haste or ignorance" was not written by Iuz. His servants were not to be trusted. . . but they were to be feared. Staark lowered his sword. He had seen what happens to those who resist the Old One. He silently prayed to whoever might be listening that this priest would not find the book he had just put into his pack and spoke: "Then let his foes fear my blade. I accept your bargain priest."

Private Jobrick Knox surveyed the carnage of the battlefield. A half dozen orcs lay bleeding on the ground. The orcs hadn't been expecting the attack and had fled after the first units of heavy infantry moved in. After that, the brass had sent in the cavalry to chase them down. Now, he was in the fourth day of riding down various groups of stragglers that the scouts reported.

Iuz's defeated troops very rarely headed back into his territory — Old Evil is not known for his mercy. They usually headed for the mountains or the Phostwood. This group was even more unusual though. They were heading straight into the Pale. And it was the Pale now, whatever the Duke's adherents might claim.

"Lance 2 take the point." The sergeant's gruff voice cut into Jobrick's musings. "The scout says we can't be more than an hour behind them now." Jobrick spurred his horse forward to take the point position with the other riders in his lance. As he moved to the front of the unit, he could tell the scout was right. The heavy booted tread of the orcs was visible in the muddy streambed — even to his untrained eye.

"Look sharp, I'd say there's at least a dozen of them in heavy armor." The scout and his dog pulled up alongside Jobrick's horse. "These ones are careful — they didn't throw down their weapons or shields when they ran away and they've been marching in three files since they broke through Griffon company's lines. It's hard to tell how many there are."

"Thanks for the warning little one," said Jobrick. "I for one don't intend to become fodder for some orc's cookpot."

"Just doing my job." The halfling smiled up at him. "I'll have to track them down again if you don't get them. Who knows how far they'll get into the land?"

Jobrick rode on. The sky turned a murky gray as clouds covered the sun. The scout rode off down a gully — perhaps nature was calling. . . . The grassy fields came up to a ridge of rocky hills. Weren't orcs supposed to hate the sunlight? Didn't they ever sleep? Impatient, Jobrick loosed his sword in its scabbard and adjusted his grip on his lance. He longed something beyond the dreary monotony of muddy footprints in three rows. His wish was granted.

All at once, a volley of arrows launched from behind the rocks ahead. His horse reared in agony as the clothyard shafts pierced its studded leather barding. Only years of riding enabled the private to avoid being crushed beneath its bulk. The rest of his lance charged toward the archers only to be greeted by six orcs in heavy armor who cut their horses from under them. "Heavy armor indeed," thought Jobrick as he struggled to his feet and drew his sword. "I've seen heavy cavalry without that kind of armor!"

The other lances surged past Jobrick, braving the arrows to reach the melee. They were too late to help Jobrick's companions though. The orcs finished them off and engaged the reinforcements with a bloodcurdling battle cry: "Man-flesh tonight!"

Jobrick ran into the battle where the sergeant blocked a savage blow with his whiled and his horse kicked and bit at the orcs in a frenzy. The sergeant's opponent, a towering giant of an orc in fully articulated steel armor that clung to his body like a metal skin spun his sword with skill equal to a Pholtan Knight. As he cut through the standard-bearer, he continued his savage blow and shattered the sergeant's shield.

"For the Light!" cried Jobrick as he brought his sword down onto the giant's arm. Sparks flew as it sliced through the thick steel and a thin spray of blood whetted his armor.

He twisted his wrist to bring his sword back in a reverse stroke but the orc caught the flat of his blade with a tremendous down-stroke and carved it into pieces. Shoving the sergeant backwards with his shield, the orc brought his full power to bear on Jobrick, slicing through his shield and helmet. Jobrick crumpled to the ground in a pool of blood. . . .

Sometime later, Jobrick awoke. He couldn't feel the right side of his face and he wished he couldn't see the left. Pain shot through his face like ballista bolts through tin. Even the blessed light of Pholtus stabbed his eyes. Something large and dark moved across his vision. Had the orcs decided to make good on their threat? Something wet caressed his face as his eyes came into focus.

The blood-specked face of a mastiff stared at him. Purple cloth bandages wrapped around the dog's torn ear. "Good work girl." Who was that? "I think he'll be able to walk; he'd better be able to. . . . I know you can't carry two and I don't want to be here if they decide to my horn wasn't reinforcements after all."

Something warm and energizing washed down his throat. The pain subsided. "Well there young man. We'd best be moving. Someone'll have to warn the lieutenant his stragglers got away."

Jobrick pushed his face up, out of the dirt and saw the halfling in front of him with an empty vial in his hand. "The others. . . . are they. . . ."

"I think the sergeant will make it," replied the scout gesturing to the unconscious body strapped to his dog's back. And Mournlight was trapped under his horse when it fell. Unless the priests do something by tomorrow, he'll probably never walk again but I tracked down a horse that'll carry his stretcher. We'd best get moving though. There are signs of another group of stragglers a half hour to the east."

Jobrick struggled to his feet and wobbled unsteadily. He still had the hilt of his broken sword in his hand. He dropped it and picked up the standard-bearer's sword — a beautiful double-edged longsword with silver runes down the blade. "May Pholtus grant that I avenge you for your former master." Turning, Jobrick stumbled after the halfling. The time for vengeance would come. Now was the time to live.

Field Report:
The Defense of Garson Town
Moonday, 12 Fireseek.

Eleven days ago, our post at Garson town was assaulted by a strong force of orcs. From their sigils and the testimony of a captive, these appear to have been the remnants of Dakk Narr's legion, a force of orcs reported defeated two weeks before Needlefest. In our need, however, Pholtus provided for our defense and we have not only driven off these orcs but have destroyed the fighting capability of the opposing force.

As Dakk Narr's lieutenants marched across the remnants of Tenh with their motley companies of deserters and survivors, Pholtus's plan first became apparent. A group of these soldiers came upon me and my guard while we surveyed our surroundings for a suitable area to train the Flan in siege tactics, a young priest of the Light, Brother Maynard and his companions rescued us from their grasp. Similar incidents occurred throughout the day. A group of travelers from Nyrond came to the prior's rescue as he was besieged in the farmhouse where he had gone to bring Pholtus's healing to the daughter of one of the few farmers we have been able to entice back to this ravaged region. Later in the day, another group of travelers brought a captive ogre to Garson and as I ate my midday meal, another group of adventurers brought a shipment of weapons that we had thought lost to raiders. Pholtus truly provided for us in the hour of our need.

After debriefing these groups of wanderers, I offered them the opportunity to join us in our defense of the town and remain here until reinforcements arrived. We had learned something of our enemies plans and composition from these adventurers and their captives which later proved important in our defense of the town. After stationing the newcomers along part of the stone wall and palisade, I made preparations to defend the front gate. We knew that the attack would come soon, although what night was unclear.

The orcs did not keep us in suspense for long. Dakk Narr drew up his soldiers in ranks to face the front gate shortly after nightfall. As he began to exchange fire with my men, some accursed sorceror began to summon devils along the palisade and blanketed the area in darkness thus keeping anyone from reinforcing those areas of the wall that were hardest pressed. Along the stone wall, infiltrators decked out with climbing gear scaled the wall. Although the defenders repelled most of them, a few broke through our lines and set fire to several of the barracks buildings as well as one storehouse.

At the same time, a force of elite orcish soldiers approached the wall invisibly and used foul sorceries to destroy the framework supporting our repairs to the wall. Had we been alone in this defense, they might have fought their way to the gates and attacked their defenders from the inside. However, the Pholtus-granted powers of a young woman who had volunteered to aid in our defense quickly filled the gap with webs, delaying the orcs' ascent and in a hard fought battle the defenders were able to repel this assault without losing any of their number.

Unfortunately, I cannot say the same for the gates. Despite horrendous losses, Dakk Narr and his forces broke through the gates and faced us in combat. The prior called upon the power of Pholtus to shield me with his own life and I fought the orc leader on the barricade. Unfortunately, my soldiers were no match for his personal guard. They hewed down my men and surrounded me; Dakk Narr then called upon the powers of chaos to deal me a mighty blow — it would have surely ended my life had it not been for the Prior's spell. After that, I am told, the adventurers from the walls rushed to stop the orcs who poured through the shattered gates. As two dwarves fought Dakk Narr, a young private in the cavalry, rode forward and, surrounded by orcs, stood over my body and called upon Pholtus to heal my wounds. Surrounded by foes and cut off from assistance by the orcish warlord and his personal guard, he defended both me from the surrounding orcs. (I have attached a formal recommendation for Private Vendd to be awarded the Most Noble Order of the Crescent Moon — with Swords as befits his standing in the army).

An ally of ours from the Phostwood was also present among the adventurers. After throwing a ball of fire into their massed formation, he filled the gates with webs, preventing any more orcs from entering. With their leader dead inside and faced with the prospect of powerful magic, it appears that those of Dakk Narr's legion outside the gates abandoned the assault and fled.

Throughout the next week, Sergeant Rhys McCullogh and my cavalry forces were able to track down and destroy most of the fleeing orcs. About a score of them made it to the eves of the Phostwood. Considering it unwise to be without scouts for a prolonged length of time, I sent word to the elves of the Phostwood. Having seen them in battle, I do not doubt that the orcs will find their stay among the trees short and unpleasant. Unfortunately, none of my scouts unearthed any signs of the foul warlock who summoned the devils that plagued our forces on the palisade. Considering Old Evil's reputation as regards failure, it is unlikely that he has retreated to where he came. Until further notice, it would be wise to consider this orc a powerful threat lurking behind our lines.

For the record, I have attached a list of our casualties and notifications for their next of kin. Let it be known that they fought bravely and died in the service of Pholtus and the Pale.

Captain Ghavriel Thomasson
Commander of Garson Town Supply Depot and Training Center

As the sun arose, columns of smoke still ascended from Garson town. Several carts, stacked high with the bodies of orcs blocked the main gate. A pile of slashed and torn equipment lay to one side of them and just inside the gate, behind them, two dozen bodies covered with white and purple cloaks.

A trumpet call broke the stillness, and marked the rising of the sun. In the watchtowers, men stirred from their lonely vigils. Soon they would be able to rest. One half hour more till their duty was done.

A rag-tag bunch of travelers emerged from the barracks buildings in an unsteady stream. Some, obviously not used to being up so early, stumbled on their way to the mess. Others proceeded in a more orderly fashion.

A dozen soldiers in the uniforms of the Prelatal Army led a massive form to the gates where he pushed the cart piled high with bodies out onto the glacis surrounding the fortifications. Under the watchful eyes of the soldiers he hewed down trees and built a bonfire to consume the corpses of Dakk Narr's legion. Later that day, it is said, the prisoner dug two dozen graves for the bodies of the fallen soldiers and lifted the new gates into their position.

Throughout the day and the night, men, dwarves, elves, and even the odd halfling stood watch upon the walls of Garson alert and ready for another attack.

That attack, however, never came. The assault on Garson proved to be the last gasp of Dakk Narr's legion. The army's patrols tracked down the few stragglers and deserters who had abandoned the assault on Garson when the gates were filled with webs. Only one thing even gave the commander pause: Among all of the orcs slain in the initial battle or hunted down by scouts, none carried components for casting arcane spells. Whoever had summoned the devils which appeared on the palisade was still out there.