A Dance of Fang and Claw: The Ranger Archives Volume 3, page 25
The Vorska, on the other hand, had come to rely too heavily on its ability to instil paralysing fear in its victims and its inability to feel pain. It possessed no training in the ways of combat, suggesting it was far younger than Merith, who had displayed quite the degree of experience.
To that end, Asher twisted his body into an unorthodox position, using his hands, hips, and legs to coil around the Vorska. In no more than a second, the ranger had flipped the creature onto its back and come down on it with the blade he had freed mid-roll. The tip sank without protest through his opponent’s chest, piercing flesh, muscle, and heart before reaching boards.
The Vorska smiled up at him. “You are a slow learner,” it mocked.
Indeed, Asher was a slave to his instincts, instincts that always drove him into a killing move. But he wasn’t done yet. Nor was he using any blade of mere steel. With a smile of his own, the ranger adjusted his position and ran the silvyr up the Vorska’s chest, pushing the edge of the exquisite blade through bone until it was slicing the monster’s neck and head right up the middle.
With laboured breath, Asher rose from his crouch and beheld his work, a nightmare in the eyes of any man. To the ranger, however, the real nightmare was watching strands of the Vorska reconnecting the two halves back together, starting in its chest cavity. Soon, its cursed form would be whole again and the fight renewed.
At least it would have been, but a flash of silvyr brought an end to the creature’s twisted immortality. Asher kicked the head away from the body, just for good measure. “Grow that back,” he muttered.
Turning back to his companions, Doran was keeping two Vorska from reaching Danagarr and Russell, his axe and sword swinging wildly, while Hadavad was nowhere to be seen.
Asher wasted no time closing the gap and throwing himself into Doran’s fight. His last step was a short leap that gave him some height over one of the Blood Fiends, his short-sword pulled back like a snake’s head. When the distance was just right, his arm sprang out, sending the length of silvyr through the monster’s chest.
His own momentum thrust the blade on and pinned the Vorska to the wall, but damned if the creature wasn’t fast. It shoved his sword hand aside and backhanded the ranger away, leaving the silvyr blade lodged in its chest. Similarly, the son of Dorain lost his own sword in a miscalculated attack, the steel clattering not far from Danagarr, who had added his weight to the cabinets.
Asher left the dwarves to it, confident that both could handle their individual situations. The advancing Vorska was all confidence, a creature that had killed again and again, believing that its dominance over the meek prey it hunted in taverns and alleyways made it an apex predator.
The ranger would teach it a lesson.
What followed was a brief altercation of fists, elbows, and feet, a test of sorts to see what the monster knew of combat. Little to nothing was the answer. Of course, it still threw itself at him, hurling punches with abandon, no care given to any injuries it might gain. Asher let it come at him, seeing clearly its intentions. Positioning his hands and feet as he had been trained to do, the ranger straightened his left arm and swung it round into the Vorska’s chest, just above the short-sword.
Down went the creature, flung onto the back of its neck. Asher thrust his hand forward, chasing its descent, and gripped the hilt of his lodged blade. While sliding it out, the Vorska foolishly wrapped its hands around the silvyr, believing its strength and immunity to pain enough to halt the weapon. It was wrong. By the time the short-sword was returned wholly to its master, the fiend had lost almost all of its fingers and both thumbs.
The ranger dropped into a crouch and plunged his weapon down through the fiend’s pale face, pinning it to the floor. With silvyr running through its brain, the Vorska mimicked death perfectly, but Asher would see it finished. In one smooth and satisfying motion, his two-handed broadsword was freed of its scabbard and given a taste of the acrid air. It soon tasted blood, and another monster was parted in two at the neck.
Above, the ceiling rattled and the boards threatened to cave in. Flashes of light illuminated the stairs and destructive spells tore the air asunder. More than one body was being thrown about up there.
A savage war cry exploded from Doran’s lips, turning Asher’s attention to the remaining Vorska. It only remained among them for as long as it took the son of Dorain to swing Russell’s pick-axe into the side of its head. The Blood Fiend was pinned to the wall with a slight bend in its knees.
“Ye know what?” Doran voiced, wiping the sweat from his brow as he picked up his fallen axe. “That ain’ half bad!” he declared, gesturing to the miner’s weapon of choice. The axe chopped hard into the wood, the rounded blade sitting between the monster’s vertebrae. The dwarf was sure to leave his axe in the wall as the body fell to the floor, leaving the Vorska’s head wedged between his weapon and the pick-axe.
The moment of levity was broken in time with Russell’s door.
Another chain had snapped, allowing a whole arm and head to breach the timber. Jaws of merciless teeth gnashed at the air only a hair’s breadth from Danagarr’s face, sending the dwarf tumbling back into the wall. Out whipped the wolf’s arm, a hand of pointed claws flexed to reach the smith.
Doran might have roared but it paled next to the Werewolf. Still, the son of Dorain mounted the nearest cabinet and fearlessly wrestled an arm as long as himself.
“Don’ let it bite ye!” Danagarr yelled, before losing his place on the smaller cabinet and falling to the floor.
Doran was swung wildly about, his body shoved into the walls and down onto the cabinets. The wolf tried to bite him several times but the dwarf was saved by his armour. That didn’t stop him crying out every time, fearful that those teeth would still find his flesh.
At last, the dwarf had taken all the beating he could and let go of Russell’s arm. He landed at Asher’s feet, bloody and bruised, but his eyes were alight with searing wrath. The ranger stepped over him, having swapped his broadsword for the silvyr blade, and swiped at that deadly arm. The wolf yelped, retracting the limb, before returning a roar of defiance. Asher stepped back just enough to avoid the claws and lashed out himself, scoring another blow with his short-sword.
“That ain’ goin’ to do it!” Doran growled, turning Asher’s attention back.
“We’re not killing him!” the ranger protested, seeing the axe freed of the wall and firmly in its master’s vengeful hands.
“It ain’ a him!” Doran argued. “That’s a damned monster, Asher! Look at it! Russell wouldn’ want this fiend usin’ his body!”
Another handful of claws came dangerously close to Asher’s face, pushing him back another step. How long did they have before the other fastenings and bolts gave way? “We’re not killing him,” he repeated, slowly and deliberately.
“Get out o’ me way,” the son of Dorain ordered. “It’ll be quick an’ clean—he won’ feel a thing.”
Asher moved again, this time placing himself directly between the wolf and Doran. There were few in all the realm who could withstand the look in Asher’s eyes and advance to challenge him, but the son of Dorain was easily counted among them.
The tension between was shattered by Danagarr’s fearsome cry. They turned to see the smith swing his hammer and land a heavy blow across Russell’s snout, splattering the wall with blood. The wolf yelped again and momentarily fell back into its cage.
“I didn’ come all this way to build a prison for a dead wolf!” the smith exclaimed. “Let’s jus’ survive the night, eh?”
The Werewolf made itself known again, its ire directed at Danagarr. Doran hefted his axe and moved in for a killing blow, shouldering Asher as he did. The ranger dropped a heavy hand on the dwarf’s black pauldron but it was quickly shrugged off.
“Doran,” he snarled, hand tightening around the silvyr hilt.
The ranger failed to follow through with his threat of violence. Instead, he listened to that sixth sense that he had honed over years of fighting and stalking his prey, a sense that told him he was being flanked.
Pivoting on his heel, Asher came face to face with four Vorska, their fangs catching in the torchlight. “The wolf will be coming with us,” Merith announced, emerging from the back of the group.
His voice was enough to turn Doran around and their collective presence was enough to enrage Russell’s wolf. It seemed to fight its restraints all the more, though whether it wished to flee or fight remained to be seen.
Staying beyond its impressive reach, Asher adopted a fighting stance, his knees bent and weapon raised in a reverse grip. He was already envisioning the six moves it would take to decapitate Merith.
“You fought the good fight,” the ancient Vorska continued, his expressive grin exposing more fangs. “But as I’m sure the mage has already informed you; you’re in the middle of a war, and there’s no room for a third party.”
“The mage,” came a hearty interruption, “has a name.”
The Vorska turned to see Hadavad at the base of the stairs, his staff in one hand and a leathery pouch held out in the other. Quite casually, the mage tossed the pouch into the midst of the Blood Fiends. While it was still flying towards them, the creatures reacted as one, dropping themselves into a crouch, a snake-like hiss pushing through their cold lips.
Then Hadavad tapped his staff against the floor.
Mid-air, the pouch exploded, filling the basement with glittering dust. Asher shielded his eyes before realising it was harmless, though the Vorska could not say the same. The creatures shrieked and wailed, their pale bodies thrashing against each other in the confined space. Their skin was burning black, adding smoke and a rank odour to the glittering dust.
Trained to use every opportunity, Asher reacted first, using the chaos to his advantage. Merith had already fallen back behind two of his underlings, the only one to have retained some measure of control. Determined to reach him, the ranger reduced the level of chaos by two bodies, dropping one Vorska after the other in a flash of silvyr.
Beyond his reach, Merith found a strength his cursed kin could not. The ancient Vorska grabbed and violently shoved one of the remaining two fiends directly into Hadavad. The mage was thrown off balance, allowing Merith the opportunity he needed to dash up the stairs, and be taken by shadow.
Hadavad hit the floor and was quickly encumbered beneath the screaming Vorska. Despite its new-found pain, the monster tried desperately to sink its fangs into the mage’s throat. Its slimy tongue, singed by the floating dust, slithered over Hadavad’s neck, its puckering suckers eager to taste blood.
Having thrown the other Vorska back, towards Doran and his waiting axe, Asher had advanced into the room and flanked the flailing fiend. With one hand, the ranger dragged it off the mage and even backhanded his silvyr blade across the creature’s swiping attack, relieving it of everything from the knuckles down. A swift slash of his short-sword, bringing the weapon back the other way, sliced through all but the Vorska’s spinal cord. Though it did not grant death, it was enough to bring an end to the monster’s thrashing.
Positioning his feet either side of its still shoulders, Asher plunged the tip of his sword down through the back of the Blood Fiend’s neck, finishing the job. Hadavad offered his thanks and accepted the ranger’s hand to regain his footing, though the two paused to watch another decapitated head fly out of the corridor and roll across the floor.
“What in the hells is this stuff?” Doran’s voice boomed over the wolf’s continued growls.
Rounding the corner, the dwarf was wafting the air in front of his face in a bid to escape the dust. Asher ignored him, his attention captured by the Werewolf clawing at the outside wall, its surviving chains barely keeping it contained.
“Move!” Hadavad barked, pushing past Asher. “Get back!” he instructed, gesturing for the dwarves to get behind him.
After Danagarr had timed his climb and jump over the cabinets, the mage stepped in, his staff angled high. Asher could see his lips muttering something but he discerned no individual words.
Then—as was the way with magic—the spell he enacted came as if from nowhere. Within seconds, smoke was pouring out of the staff and concealing the wolf. The beast coughed and spluttered before being pushed back into its cage. Hadavad, however, did not relent. The mage inserted his staff into the room and continued to bring forth more smoke, filling the cage until the wolf was taken from sight.
“What are ye doin’?” the dwarven smith asked, his hand now working to keep back smoke as well as dust.
“A monster it may be,” Hadavad replied, finally removing his staff, “but even monsters need to breath.” The mage stepped back from the broken door, one hand raised as if to cup the moats of dust. “As for this…”
“Silver,” Asher stated, finally having a moment to examine the glittering cloud.
“Indeed,” Hadavad confirmed. “It is the only thing I have ever known to inflict pain upon a Vorska. Damn expensive though,” he added dourly. “I have no more.”
Doran waved the conversation away. “What about the wolf?” he asked pointedly.
The mage looked back before directing his staff at the room. A slow but forceful pulse was emitted from the balled end and cleared just enough of the smoke to reveal the wolf on the floor.
“I doubt it is so easy to kill such a beast,” Hadavad opined. “But, for now, we might just see the night through.” The mage sighed. “I for one am ready for the dawn.”
Chapter 20
Moving On
Berserker - Another foul abomination from the depths of the Shadow Realm. I hate to imagine what that hellish plane of existence truly looks like. Going by the monsters brought forth, it would make a man go mad.
The Berserker is no exception. We have to assume some devil beyond understanding gave this beast life. ’Tis a man made flesh with a scorpion. They possess three scorpion tails and arms that end in hideous claws. Their head can only be described as a man’s split in half and peeled over the shoulders.
At ten to twelve feet in height, these behemoths aren’t easy to kill. See below for known traps and baits.
A Chronicle of Monsters: A Ranger’s Bestiary, 12th Edition, Page 405.
Benjamin Cawl, Ranger.
After a long day of clearing up debris, replacing boards to windows and doors, and piling up Vorska bodies in the courtyard, Russell was faced by that same room for a second time. By the look of him, Asher could see that the previous transformations had taken their toll. His appearance was haggard, his demeanour one of exhaustion, despite having slept away most of the day.
“I’ve made the repairs,” Danagarr announced from inside the room, one hand coming up to wipe a filthy kerchief across his sweating brow. “And I’ve attached the harness I told ye abou’. Oh,” he added, one finger raised. “I’ve also fitted an extra pair o’ restraints. We’re goin’ to fit these abou’ yer legs, jus’ above the knee I think.”
Russell didn’t look convinced, even if his expression remained as untouched as the mountains. “This isn’t going to work,” he said hopelessly.
“It will,” Asher reassured, backhanding a collection of sweat from his right eyebrow. “Hadavad’s going to fill the room with smoke as you turn. We’ll see you again, just like we did today.”
“What if they come back?” Maybury posed. “What if the Vorska return? What if this Creed attacks?”
The ranger half turned to regard the mage, for it had been Hadavad who earlier that day had answered the very same question, though it had been Doran who had asked it then.
“I am fortunate enough,” the mage began, “to have friends in high places in this city.”
Doran snorted. “High places? It don’ get much higher than the king an’ queen o’ Lirian, Mage.”
“The king and queen?” Russell questioned, a portion of himself rising from the slump of depression.
“I made a point,” Hadavad explained for the second time that day, “a long time ago, to ingratiate myself with the ruling family. I have served the kings and queens of Lirian in a number of ways, often to the ire of their court mages,” he added with some amusement. “But my continued aid has granted me certain… privileges in these parts.”
“Such as?” the dwarven smith demanded, absent from their earlier conversation.
“As we speak, the city’s perimeter guard has been doubled and the king has requested patrols by the local Graycoats. The knights of West Fellion dare not refuse the king who contributes so much coin to their order. There aren’t many of them, mind you, but their skill and reputation will be of much use. Fear not,” the mage said finally, resting against his staff. “We can take care of ourselves, Mr Maybury.”
“An’ that,” Doran pointed out, his thick arms folded across his chest, “would be all the easier, if ye would…” The dwarf nodded at the open door, urging Russell to take his place inside the cage.
Preceded by a great sigh, Maybury entered the room where he allowed Danagarr and Asher to secure the manacles and chains about him. Lastly, the harness was attached, a thick strap of leather laced with chains that fastened to the wall behind him.
“What did you do to the door?” Russell asked from within his bonds.
Danagarr glanced back at his handiwork. “It’s not the door I had in mind—nor is it the one I’ll fit when time is on me side—but it might just be enough to dissuade the wolf from giving it a pounding.”
Asher had to agree, seeing the numerous rows of large nails that had been hammered through an iron sheet and welded to the back of the door, a door the smith had taken from the hinges of another room. The wolf would mutilate its hands if it managed to break free and attack the door again. Asher could only hope it wouldn’t come to that this time.
“Are we all set?” Hadavad asked from the threshold.
Russell immediately tested the strength of his chains, his whole body surging forwards. Danagarr jumped back, one hand reaching for the small hammer on his belt, while the ranger stepped forwards, one arm pressed into Maybury’s chest.
