Tales From the Old World

The Midnight Raid: Part One

The rain softly pelted the soggy ground, teasing the warm flames of the campfires. It's soft patter was the only sound audible before cries of pain and shrieks of death filled the air, mixing black blood into the muddy pools on the forest floor.

A hand went up, signalling a cease-fire. Knocked arrows were returned to their quivers and the forest was silent, aside from the sound of the rain, once more. A tall man in a heavy black cloak stalked out from his place in the trees and entered the campsite, rolling bodies of orcs and goblins over, inspecting. Even though the cloak was very large it betrayed the round outline of pauldrons and a broad chestplate. He pulled a gleaming blade from its scabbard and drove it through the neck of a goblin, wounded but still breathing. Choked breaths filled the air before they finally went quiet.

More men, garbed in the same heavy black cloaks streamed from the woods, finishing off any orcs that still drew air. Unlike the first, these men were rangers, garbed in their black leathers and thin iron plates, elites of stealth and close combat. It was odd to witness a man in full plate armour joining them, for they despised outsiders to their company.

The heavily armoured man was crouched down, investigating the helm that the orc beneath him bore. A ranger joined him, bearing with him an air of authority, clearly the captain. He pulled back his hood revealing a mightily scarred visage, lacking his left eye. A giant scar ran diagonaly down his face where it met the cleft that had been hacked into the side of his jaw years ago. Daveth Hackmaw they called him, an ugly name for an ugly man.

Hackmaw placed a gloved hand onto the shoulder of Roland Windstrider, the armoured man.

"What have you found, Sentinel?" Daveth asked, his hoarse voice shattering the silence of the woods.

"I'm not quite sure, but I don't like the feeling of this. Take a look at the markings these monsters bear," Windstrider replied, rising to give the ranger a clear view of the orc. As he stood his cloak swayed, revealing the shining griffon emblazoned on his breastplate, the emblem of his order. He belonged to the Sentinels, guardians of free men and the agents of the Angel and Demon, the warriors fighting the tyranny of the dragons who once ruled over all the realm.

A breeze picked up, blowing the hood from Roland's head, revealing short-cropped silver, along with a full beard, just as silver as the hair atop his head. His eyes shone a pale blue, even in the gloom of the stormy forest.

Hackmaw crouched down and took the helm in his hands, running a finger over the red hand painted across it.

"What is this? Some shadowmaster's pets?" He implored, his temper rising. The Hackmaw was not a man known for his calmness.

"No, can't be. They did burn a few ships as they made landing but they are our allies. The shadowmasters can't be trusted but the Demon can and he seems to have them in line. They fear him and his power. To defy him would mean death, and that is something far from any of their personal goals," the Sentinel said, partially thinking aloud.

"We are so far from the front lines, why would the enemy be ordered to venture out here? Especially pawns such as these?" Daveth asked, tracing the hand with a finger.

"This is strange, but . . . no, I think you were onto something with talk of a shadowmaster's pets. Not the shadowmasters but some greedy sorcerer, eager for quick power, one who struck a deal with the dragons. It is the only reasonable answer, we must search for this man . . . and destroy him,"

"Then maybe we shouldn't have killed his scouts, and followed them back home,"

"It is too late now, we must find another way, we cannot  allow this sorcerer to survive for any longer. Who knows what he is doing, wherever he hides,"