A short story (w.i.p) Chapter 2

Kilgar the slayer was in a foul mood. His beer was flat. He quaffed half of it anyway. No better way to start the morning. He ordered another. The tavern, the Twisted Tyrant Inn, sported the usual morning crowd, mostly off duty militia and ragged late night performers. He looked around the darkened main room. Taxidermist heads of various monster were mounted on the walls, a goblin, an orc, two ogre heads, and the pride of the tavern owner, a harpy's head. Kilgar the slayer grunted and then burped. It was good to be in this place, good to see the heads. He quaffed the remainder of his beer. It was his 13th of the morning, enough to buzz the warrior good, enough to feel ease from his ongoing anxieties. 

He hadn't always been a drunk. Times were when he was the co-leader of an important adventuring party. Filch the thief, Sir Crestbrook the paladin, Applo the cleric, and Tok the wizard, these were the names of his bygone partners. But that had been several years ago, and today of that group only Kilgar the slayer still breathed the stale air here or anywhere. The others had met their deaths in a near total party kill in the Halls of Pain at the hands of the Jasmine Necromancer. Kilgar the slayer had run that foul priest through the skull with a war pick. But not before the others had been slain. He had taken the loot from the dungeon. He had taken everything he could find. For awhile he had lived well to do, but without his adventuring mates, drinking soon captured most of his resources.

He ordered another beer. Time is the essence he thought. The essence, which allowed skilled adventurers to make the grade, to secure the haul. Anything could be measured by its yard stick. Success and failure shed from it like dog hairs. Time: where would he be tomorrow, he chuckled to himself. That was the question Sir Crestbrook had posed to him at their first meeting. Without a ready answer, Kilgar the slayer signed right up to be the party's other heavy. There was a strength to the paladin's goodness. It brought out the best in others, even others not so good by other measures as he liked to think of himself. They had made some noise, busted some heads, developed more than a nascent reputation for daring exploits. They had made the grade.

He quaffed his 14th beer, unwilling to let go of the topic. Then with a start, he noticed the man across the room. A wizard of some kind, it was hard to tell in the dim light of the tavern. Yes, that man was  staring straight at him and perhaps had been for some time. Unruffled, Kilgar the slayer took out his pipe, loaded a bowl, and had a smoke. Even moderately buzzed he knew the best way of handling strange spellcasters was to play a part. He would ease into his chair and wait for an encounter to unfold. Blowing smoke rings with some pleasure, he contemplated his empty mug and then shrugged.

What are you staring at spell caster, he blurted? 

Buy me an ale or I'll squash your head. 

The militia men looked up from their drinks. The wizard nodded. A beer for the warrior, he said aloud to the serving wench, an ample bosomed woman in a tight t and skirt, showing impressive strength and curves.

Mollified Kilgar the slayer puffed on his pipe. 15 was not a good number but he had made the initial foray to encounter on 14, and that pleased him. The wizard continued his appraisal. Then, with an awkward flourish he was up and over to the table where Kilgar the slayer sit smoking his pipe. 

I've been searching for a warrior who can hold his own and his drink, the wizard said. Know anyone?

Kilgar the slayer faced the wizard.

I kill for pleasure, he replied gruffly. It was only partially true. 

The wizard smiled. So do I, he spoke. I am Paro the Particular, and I wager a man who can smoke a pipe after 14 beers is one who can handle more delicate matters.

Kilgar the slayer grunted as if to say, I am exactly such a man.

Good. I have your attention. You see I have a business proposition, said the wizard, taking a seat across from the slayer. 

The slayer said nothing but took a pull on number 15.

I've come into an inheritance, said the wizard. 

The wizard continued, we shall go to claim an estate, which I am now legally entitled to. The estate's household may forcibly disagree. That's where you come in. I may require warrior's work. The pay depends on the success of the claim, shall we say 10% of the haul. 

Kilgar the slayer relit his pipe. This drunken day was shaping up nicely.

A short story (w.i.p.) Chapter 1

In desperate conditions making abominable the terrain, strange shadows aloft held the sparse torchlight. We'd earn our pay this evening, I thought, knowing full well that every man in the mercenary guard party felt it too; they had been told kobolds only and at the limit. Yet the rain kept pouring down in sheets. Lightning flashed. And, crashing thunder split the early evening. The torches sputtered. A tree split. Then the stone strikes came like a god's message, hammering the tent lines and any tackled animals. And, so did huge Gangor the roaring hill giant and his bellowing, hulking lads strike at our base camp. 

Rude shock. The ferocious giant and his frenzied ogres slaughtered all in their path. Men were tossed rudely about like sacks of potatoes to land in burlesque caricature of their former living selves. Those who survived being tossed were stomped into scarlet oozing paste. Still others were run down from behind as they sought to escape the onslaught. The merchant with the caravan died last. He refused to run and leave the cargo. They tore him in two. Only I, Paro the Particular, spell disguised as an actual sack of potatoes, managed to survive.

A yellow sun rose to warm and illuminate the next day. Making my way through the ruins of the camp, I found the trashed tent of grimly hapless Barrax the Merchant. His belt pouch had dislodged when he was slain by dread Gangor, so it was on the ground even after the merchant's body had been carried away, food for an ogre. Always on the mark, I knew what the pouch contained before I examined it: platinum crowns, the badge of the merchant's house, and a key. The key would be to a chest in the dead man's home. In that chest were valuables and even objects of interest to a wizard. So I reset my previous plans. Gathering up scattered provisions for a return journey, I would travel to homebase, City d'Arcs, badge equipped so as to present myself as house functionary and visit Barrax's impressive home.

I followed back the path, which the caravan had traveled. The going was slow as I was on alert for any humanoid activity. After the better part of the morning, I entered the dry holloway, which led to the main road. The banks were tree lined and steep on both sides; the path meandered as a spring fed stream would, cutting its way through earth and rock. I grew wary. Without the protection of the caravan guards, ambush in this place was a real possibility, and there were plenty of hiding places to support it. I paused off to the side of the path. And then began again carefully. Soon I had confirmation of the legitimacy of my concern. Sure enough, up ahead of a bend in the path some 30 yards away stood three, particularly tall, murderous, jackal headed warriors, armed with war axes. I drew my dagger, a diversion while I cast my spell. 

The jackal men charged. And, a spinning fire wheel launched from the Ring of Quasar on my right hand. It started small but increased in size as it rotated until it filled the gully as it sped toward my enemies. They blanched at the magic, but it was too late for them. The roaring wheel engulfed them, searing them to their armor and leaving only thick blackened husks collapsed in a heap. Instinctively, I spun around, casting another fire wheel, no look. Sure enough two more jackal warriors had crept up from the backside. They met the same fate as their burned pack mates up front. I grunted in satisfaction. The expenditure would only cost me two weeks of iron will meditation to recover the future use of the ring. Such were my thoughts as I stepped around the smoldering corpses.

Proceeding onward again and with no more mishaps, I made good time, hitting the main road just after noon. There I took up with a traveling feather merchant also heading to the city. Along the way, he informed me that Prince Roshed, the ruler of the City d'Arcs, had recently placed 100 criminals in gibbets along the Traitors Way. Some were women and children. This news came as a surprise to me, for the city laws were always presented in the courts as progressive. 

Something wicked this way has come, I thought, but I kept these misgivings to myself. 

Rounding the last hillock to enter into the clayish fields before the city, I marked the peasants working their meager plots and the foremen who fiercely oversaw them. The agriculture work was basic and hard, yet the city must be fed. It was thus with anticipation of some thirst relief that we passed through the Leopard Gate to enter the Laymen's Quarter. Taking my leave, I quickly located a tavern, the Twisted Tyrant Inn, and set up there for the night.