10-15-2003, 04:10 PM
The Final Act Of Vengeance: A Great Victory
Thirteen tall lances stood like a steel tipped forest in the chamber deep underground, held erect by a grim faced platoon of Legionaires. Fell were their gazes as Shaft Sergeant Pygmy inspected their equipment, noted their wounds, and sized up their fighting spirit.
"Legionaires, we have come at last to the final act of vengeance upon the Bane of the Legion. For too many months were our comrades hired out, one by one, and sent to fight the demons deep beneath the desert floor. For too many months did careless adventurers return to Lut Gholein to bask in the glory of living through an encounter with hell spawn, leaving our comrades-in-arms behind as an hors d' houvre for the Lord of Pain. Countless are the spears that shattered beneath the charge of the Great Maggot."
The Sergeant paused, letting the legacy of slaughter sink in to the hungover craniums of his platoon, whose celebration of their great victory over the swarms of ghosts, goats, and gorebellies had lasted into the wee hours of the morning. He raised his voice and continued, oblivious to their wincing as his voice caromed around inside their aching heads.
"It ends here, it ends now, it ends for once and for all. We shall form a Phallus -- uh, pardon me Xan -- we shall form a Phalanx and give Duriel, Lord of Pain, a taste of what it feels like to be overwhelmed by a charge. We shall spit him, skewer him, and gore him until there is naught left on the floor of his lair but a pool of slime. Our Comrades Shall Not Have Died in Vain!"
"Death To The Demon Slug!" came the cry of thirteen voices in response, while thirteen lance butts were raised and slammed back into the ground. The din shook the mildewed walls and brought a blizzard of dust down upon their two, arrow straight ranks.
"Bother," came a muttered voice from the second rank, "I just polished my helmet this morning, and now look at it."
"We aren't going on parade, Shattershaft, we march to cover ourselves in gore, ichor, and glory," came the aside, soto vocce, from CharisGreizman the combat engineer.
"Knock of the yapping!" snapped Sergeant Sarisa, Mistress of Discipline. "Seems that my new whip needs to hit a few more jaws, and a few less fannies, if we are to have any order around here."
"Geeze," came an almost unheard voice from the second rank, McFrugal's perhaps, "Give her another stripe and she's the bloody Queen of Westmarch."
"She's not from Westmarch," mumbled the bewildered and not-quite-soft-enough voice of Lance Corporal OcchiD'Merc, still hungover from his unaccustomed wine drunk, his beer ban still in effect, "She's from Philios--"
"Enough!"
Sergeant Pygmy's voice cracked like a whip that made Sarisa's whip seem a silk cord in comparison. He unrolled a battered scroll, squinting in the torchlight to read the words scrawled thereon.
"Attention to Orders:
From: The Great and Omnipotent Greiz
To: Pygmy's Pike Platoon
Mission: Attack the Demons in the Tomb of Tal Rasha. Defeat in detail, leave no remnants. Recover all loot, medallions, and such identifiable remains of deceased legionaires as are present. Return with all material and liquidate for at least fair market value. Deposit the usual 25% of the gross proceeds into the Bank of Kingsport, Lut Gholein Branch.
Follow on mission: Reconaissance in force authorized upon seizure of the objective and destruction of enemy forces.
Special Instructions: Pursue any and all demons found.
Signed: Greiz."
"Any questions, Platoon?" asked Pygmy, looking up from the scroll.
"No, Sergeant!!" came the reply in unison.
"Right! Pla-toon, Traaaiiil . . . Arms!"
Thirteen lances dropped to a thirty degree angle from the floor, twenty six hands gripping them frimly.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," muttered Chalan, a trainee known for his fanatic attacks against monsters.
"Uuuup . . . Pikes!"
Thirteen lance butts were raised from the floor, and twenty six hands gripped the lances, now held parallel, tips thrust agressively forward.
Sergeant Pygmy motioned to the dark hole in front of him.
"Chaaaaaaaarge!"
"Huuuaaaaaaaaahh!!!!!" Bellowed the Platoon.
------
Half a rod
Half a rod
Half a rod downward
Forward into the Chamber of Death
Charged the Baker's Dozen
"Charge for the Bug!" They said.
Was there a lance dismayed?
Their's not to reason why
Their's not to make reply
Their's but to do or die
The Noble Baker's Dozen!
------
The Lord of Pain looked up at the sound of the great shout coming from the chamber above, and licked his lips. "Ahhhh, dinnertime," he thought, "I was getting a little peckish."
"Looking for Baal?" He laughed out loud as he erupted forth from his corner of the room, charging into . . . fourteen steel tipped pikes hurtling toward him in deadly ernest. His momentum carried him into the two ranks of steel tipped ash and gored him twice seven fold.
"Uuuuuaaaaarrrrraaaaiiiiiggghhhh!!!" Came his scream of pain, his malformed limbs flailing in mortal agony.
"Die, Die, Time to Die!" chanted fourteen voices, their lances thrusting, ever thrusting, in the grim rhythm made famous by the Spartans at Thermopylae.
In the short, chaotic melee that followed, Chalan proved a seer. Duriel's manic flailing caught the legionaire a mortal blow, a blow that was the last the Lord of Pain ever struck in this plane of existence.
The din of combat stilled suddenly, but only for a moment, as the demon collapsed in a heap. SUddenly, then very rock of the chamber began to cave in from the cumulative sonic trauma of the full throated battlecries, shouts, and bellowing of the legionaires and the incessant demonic howling. Greenish white ichor spewed all over, blinding some of the legionaires, as Duriel's corpse erupted, his soul fleeing to the deepest hells.
"To me! To me!" Came Sergeant Pygmy's rallying cry.
"A path, a path!!" Cried OcchiD'Merc.
"What, and no shrubbery? Ni!" Came McFrugal's confused response.
"Rally on Pygmy, or the roof shall crush us!" Shouted Sergeant Sarisa, her voice cracking like her whip.
The platoon surged forward, charging up a ramp into another long hall. Behind them they heard the thunder of the dark chamber's cave in.
"Report!" barked Sergeant Pygmy.
CharisGreizman quicly scanned the ranks, and noted Chalan missing.
"Twelve present and accounted for, Sergeant, Legionaire Chalan appears to have fallen."
"Yes, he did," confirmed Shattershaft in a subdued voice, gesturing to the corpse of his gallant trainee who lay partly concealed by the casual rank they had formed, "but the Legion never leaves its comrades behind!!"
The Platoon knealt in silent acknowledgement of Chalan's sacrifice.
"I'm not dead yet . . " came a faint groan from Chalan, "I'm feeling better . . ." he coughed, over a lungful of blood.
"Medic!" cried Shattershaft, who then realized he was a Paladin, and so knealt to pray for healing from the Light.
"Forward we go, there is no going back! Frug, Jemali, Occhi, Mizam: Litter Bearers. CharisGreizman: Point. Sarisa and Hazeem: Flanks. The rest, with me!"
Sergeant Pygmy's orders focused his little band. The medics quickly fashioned a combat litter and carried Chalan forward.
After a rapid march deeper into the hall, Sergeant Pygmy noticed that it was getting warmer.
"Would you Look at That!" CharisGreizman shouted from the point position. "Holy Blinding Lighthouse, Sarge, come look at this!"
The platoon arrived where CharisGreizman was rooted to the floor, and then stopped as one, staring open mouthed.
They stood in a huge hall, in the rear of which rose an enormous stone altar surrounded by a pit of flame at least twenty strides across. But it was not the flaming pit that so amazed the legionaires.
What held their stares was the nine foot tall being aglow with blinding white light, his shimmering wings spreading easily ten paces to either side of him. They beheld an Angel of the Light.
"Thank you for freeing me," the figure began in a rich, modulated baritone voice.
"No time to talk, whoever you are," barked Xan, the cold of Mount Pylos' glaciers in her voice. "We've got a wounded soldier here, so either you heal him, or help us get to where we can."
The figure paused for a moment, considering the Amazon seriously, and then with the wave of his hand opened a large glimmering blue portal and bowed.
"Go, then, and heal your comrade in Lut Gholein. This portal will take you there. It does my soul good to see such selflessness among mercenaries."
"Whatever!" shouted Xan, sounding quite annoyed.
OcchiD'Merc looked at Xan, wondering how she could be so unimpressed by an Archangel. He was stunned, to say the least, to see a Messenger of the Light standing before him. But he had no time to muse, as Sergeant Pygmy, eyes glazed with wonder, took Xan's urging and tugging at his sleeve as sufficient guidance to hurry his troops through the portal and into the harsh daylight of high noon in Lut Gholein . . . where the entire platoon, after dropping Chalan off for healing at Fara's Dispensary and Iron Foundary, proceeded to Atma's Tavern to get noisily, and completely, drunk on Cactus extract, pomegranite wine and, except for Lance Corporal Occhi, every drop of beer left in Lut Gholein.
===
By the time they sobered up three days later, they could not have said for certain if they had seen an angel at all, or if it was just another memory brought on by the delerium of the celebration of their great victory.
"Aaahh, angel my eye," Xan had been heard to mutter more than once during the three day soiree, "If he was such hot stuff, why did he let a bug keep him prisoner when he could have magicked mimself away? I aint buyin' it."
At muster on the third morning after their victory, a messenger from Greiz arrived at the barracks. Sergeant Pygmy listened to the whispered instructions, nodded, and called for the platoon to fall in.
"Get your kit in order, Legionaires, time, tide and profit await no man. We sail with the tide, on Mesheif's transport, in an hours time. Fall Out!!"
It's always the same story for a Legionaire, mused OcchiD'Merc, success just brings you more work. With such profundity meandering around in his brain, he headed back to the barracks to joint the rest of the platoon in preparing for the journey East . . . always East . . .
Thirteen tall lances stood like a steel tipped forest in the chamber deep underground, held erect by a grim faced platoon of Legionaires. Fell were their gazes as Shaft Sergeant Pygmy inspected their equipment, noted their wounds, and sized up their fighting spirit.
"Legionaires, we have come at last to the final act of vengeance upon the Bane of the Legion. For too many months were our comrades hired out, one by one, and sent to fight the demons deep beneath the desert floor. For too many months did careless adventurers return to Lut Gholein to bask in the glory of living through an encounter with hell spawn, leaving our comrades-in-arms behind as an hors d' houvre for the Lord of Pain. Countless are the spears that shattered beneath the charge of the Great Maggot."
The Sergeant paused, letting the legacy of slaughter sink in to the hungover craniums of his platoon, whose celebration of their great victory over the swarms of ghosts, goats, and gorebellies had lasted into the wee hours of the morning. He raised his voice and continued, oblivious to their wincing as his voice caromed around inside their aching heads.
"It ends here, it ends now, it ends for once and for all. We shall form a Phallus -- uh, pardon me Xan -- we shall form a Phalanx and give Duriel, Lord of Pain, a taste of what it feels like to be overwhelmed by a charge. We shall spit him, skewer him, and gore him until there is naught left on the floor of his lair but a pool of slime. Our Comrades Shall Not Have Died in Vain!"
"Death To The Demon Slug!" came the cry of thirteen voices in response, while thirteen lance butts were raised and slammed back into the ground. The din shook the mildewed walls and brought a blizzard of dust down upon their two, arrow straight ranks.
"Bother," came a muttered voice from the second rank, "I just polished my helmet this morning, and now look at it."
"We aren't going on parade, Shattershaft, we march to cover ourselves in gore, ichor, and glory," came the aside, soto vocce, from CharisGreizman the combat engineer.
"Knock of the yapping!" snapped Sergeant Sarisa, Mistress of Discipline. "Seems that my new whip needs to hit a few more jaws, and a few less fannies, if we are to have any order around here."
"Geeze," came an almost unheard voice from the second rank, McFrugal's perhaps, "Give her another stripe and she's the bloody Queen of Westmarch."
"She's not from Westmarch," mumbled the bewildered and not-quite-soft-enough voice of Lance Corporal OcchiD'Merc, still hungover from his unaccustomed wine drunk, his beer ban still in effect, "She's from Philios--"
"Enough!"
Sergeant Pygmy's voice cracked like a whip that made Sarisa's whip seem a silk cord in comparison. He unrolled a battered scroll, squinting in the torchlight to read the words scrawled thereon.
"Attention to Orders:
From: The Great and Omnipotent Greiz
To: Pygmy's Pike Platoon
Mission: Attack the Demons in the Tomb of Tal Rasha. Defeat in detail, leave no remnants. Recover all loot, medallions, and such identifiable remains of deceased legionaires as are present. Return with all material and liquidate for at least fair market value. Deposit the usual 25% of the gross proceeds into the Bank of Kingsport, Lut Gholein Branch.
Follow on mission: Reconaissance in force authorized upon seizure of the objective and destruction of enemy forces.
Special Instructions: Pursue any and all demons found.
Signed: Greiz."
"Any questions, Platoon?" asked Pygmy, looking up from the scroll.
"No, Sergeant!!" came the reply in unison.
"Right! Pla-toon, Traaaiiil . . . Arms!"
Thirteen lances dropped to a thirty degree angle from the floor, twenty six hands gripping them frimly.
"I've got a bad feeling about this," muttered Chalan, a trainee known for his fanatic attacks against monsters.
"Uuuup . . . Pikes!"
Thirteen lance butts were raised from the floor, and twenty six hands gripped the lances, now held parallel, tips thrust agressively forward.
Sergeant Pygmy motioned to the dark hole in front of him.
"Chaaaaaaaarge!"
"Huuuaaaaaaaaahh!!!!!" Bellowed the Platoon.
------
Half a rod
Half a rod
Half a rod downward
Forward into the Chamber of Death
Charged the Baker's Dozen
"Charge for the Bug!" They said.
Was there a lance dismayed?
Their's not to reason why
Their's not to make reply
Their's but to do or die
The Noble Baker's Dozen!
------
The Lord of Pain looked up at the sound of the great shout coming from the chamber above, and licked his lips. "Ahhhh, dinnertime," he thought, "I was getting a little peckish."
"Looking for Baal?" He laughed out loud as he erupted forth from his corner of the room, charging into . . . fourteen steel tipped pikes hurtling toward him in deadly ernest. His momentum carried him into the two ranks of steel tipped ash and gored him twice seven fold.
"Uuuuuaaaaarrrrraaaaiiiiiggghhhh!!!" Came his scream of pain, his malformed limbs flailing in mortal agony.
"Die, Die, Time to Die!" chanted fourteen voices, their lances thrusting, ever thrusting, in the grim rhythm made famous by the Spartans at Thermopylae.
In the short, chaotic melee that followed, Chalan proved a seer. Duriel's manic flailing caught the legionaire a mortal blow, a blow that was the last the Lord of Pain ever struck in this plane of existence.
The din of combat stilled suddenly, but only for a moment, as the demon collapsed in a heap. SUddenly, then very rock of the chamber began to cave in from the cumulative sonic trauma of the full throated battlecries, shouts, and bellowing of the legionaires and the incessant demonic howling. Greenish white ichor spewed all over, blinding some of the legionaires, as Duriel's corpse erupted, his soul fleeing to the deepest hells.
"To me! To me!" Came Sergeant Pygmy's rallying cry.
"A path, a path!!" Cried OcchiD'Merc.
"What, and no shrubbery? Ni!" Came McFrugal's confused response.
"Rally on Pygmy, or the roof shall crush us!" Shouted Sergeant Sarisa, her voice cracking like her whip.
The platoon surged forward, charging up a ramp into another long hall. Behind them they heard the thunder of the dark chamber's cave in.
"Report!" barked Sergeant Pygmy.
CharisGreizman quicly scanned the ranks, and noted Chalan missing.
"Twelve present and accounted for, Sergeant, Legionaire Chalan appears to have fallen."
"Yes, he did," confirmed Shattershaft in a subdued voice, gesturing to the corpse of his gallant trainee who lay partly concealed by the casual rank they had formed, "but the Legion never leaves its comrades behind!!"
The Platoon knealt in silent acknowledgement of Chalan's sacrifice.
"I'm not dead yet . . " came a faint groan from Chalan, "I'm feeling better . . ." he coughed, over a lungful of blood.
"Medic!" cried Shattershaft, who then realized he was a Paladin, and so knealt to pray for healing from the Light.
"Forward we go, there is no going back! Frug, Jemali, Occhi, Mizam: Litter Bearers. CharisGreizman: Point. Sarisa and Hazeem: Flanks. The rest, with me!"
Sergeant Pygmy's orders focused his little band. The medics quickly fashioned a combat litter and carried Chalan forward.
After a rapid march deeper into the hall, Sergeant Pygmy noticed that it was getting warmer.
"Would you Look at That!" CharisGreizman shouted from the point position. "Holy Blinding Lighthouse, Sarge, come look at this!"
The platoon arrived where CharisGreizman was rooted to the floor, and then stopped as one, staring open mouthed.
They stood in a huge hall, in the rear of which rose an enormous stone altar surrounded by a pit of flame at least twenty strides across. But it was not the flaming pit that so amazed the legionaires.
What held their stares was the nine foot tall being aglow with blinding white light, his shimmering wings spreading easily ten paces to either side of him. They beheld an Angel of the Light.
"Thank you for freeing me," the figure began in a rich, modulated baritone voice.
"No time to talk, whoever you are," barked Xan, the cold of Mount Pylos' glaciers in her voice. "We've got a wounded soldier here, so either you heal him, or help us get to where we can."
The figure paused for a moment, considering the Amazon seriously, and then with the wave of his hand opened a large glimmering blue portal and bowed.
"Go, then, and heal your comrade in Lut Gholein. This portal will take you there. It does my soul good to see such selflessness among mercenaries."
"Whatever!" shouted Xan, sounding quite annoyed.
OcchiD'Merc looked at Xan, wondering how she could be so unimpressed by an Archangel. He was stunned, to say the least, to see a Messenger of the Light standing before him. But he had no time to muse, as Sergeant Pygmy, eyes glazed with wonder, took Xan's urging and tugging at his sleeve as sufficient guidance to hurry his troops through the portal and into the harsh daylight of high noon in Lut Gholein . . . where the entire platoon, after dropping Chalan off for healing at Fara's Dispensary and Iron Foundary, proceeded to Atma's Tavern to get noisily, and completely, drunk on Cactus extract, pomegranite wine and, except for Lance Corporal Occhi, every drop of beer left in Lut Gholein.
===
By the time they sobered up three days later, they could not have said for certain if they had seen an angel at all, or if it was just another memory brought on by the delerium of the celebration of their great victory.
"Aaahh, angel my eye," Xan had been heard to mutter more than once during the three day soiree, "If he was such hot stuff, why did he let a bug keep him prisoner when he could have magicked mimself away? I aint buyin' it."
At muster on the third morning after their victory, a messenger from Greiz arrived at the barracks. Sergeant Pygmy listened to the whispered instructions, nodded, and called for the platoon to fall in.
"Get your kit in order, Legionaires, time, tide and profit await no man. We sail with the tide, on Mesheif's transport, in an hours time. Fall Out!!"
It's always the same story for a Legionaire, mused OcchiD'Merc, success just brings you more work. With such profundity meandering around in his brain, he headed back to the barracks to joint the rest of the platoon in preparing for the journey East . . . always East . . .
Cry 'Havoc' and let slip the Men 'O War!
In War, the outcome is never final. --Carl von Clausewitz--
Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum
John 11:35 - consider why.
In Memory of Pete
In War, the outcome is never final. --Carl von Clausewitz--
Igitur qui desiderat pacem, praeparet bellum
John 11:35 - consider why.
In Memory of Pete