Dire Dread Warz                Story By: Fizzban
 Part 1

       The Rain of Death

       'Goblins! Goblins!!' A voice rang out through the darkness
       like an alarm bell, shattering the stillness of the night
       'We are under attack! Take guard! Goblins! Ambush!'
         But the Strongarm captain's cry of warning came too late
       An instant later his screams were silenced when a necklace
       of blood appeared on his throat;the rabid Hill Goblin chief,
       wielding a dripping knife, shoved him off his horse and took
       his place in the saddle.  The berserk attacker was foaming
       at the mouth and cackling with savage joy as he grabbed the
       horse's reins and yanked them brutally to one side.  The
       frenzied beast resisted, whinnying and bucking, and for an
       instant its eyes met those of the Goblin.  Then commanded,
       to face the terrible scene of carnage lit up in the flickering
       torchlight.
         The caravan had been caught unawares.  Thirty-eight Strongarms
       were no match for the horde of hysterical Hill Goblins dropping
       on to them from the rocky crags above Trolltooth Pass.
       Shrieking and whooping, the filthy creatures bowled the Strongarms
       from their mounts and grappled with them on the ground. Blades
       flashed;screams from both sides rang out, and for a full hour
       the battle raged.
         'Taste blood! Taste blood!' yelled Foulblade from the dead
       captain's mount.  The Goblin chief drew his scimitar, dug his
       heels into the horse's flanks and galloped into the melee. His
       first slash caught a dismounted Strongarm just below the elbow.
       The human screamed and watched in horror as his left forearm
       dropped to the ground, the sword still clutched in his hand.
       With a maniacal laugh, Foulblade rode on towards his goal: the
       wagon at the centre of the caravan.


       Fighting desperately to keep control of the two drawhorses,
       Donnag Kannu was on his feet, gripping their bridles to steady
       them as they tried to break free. His hired Strongarms were
       making a valiant stand, keeping the Hill Goblins from the wagon
       but one by one they were falling to the demented creatures.  It
       was Foulblade's charge which eventually caused their ranks to
       break, as his scimitar, dark with blood, cut down two more of the
       Strongarms.
          Donnag Kannu reacted instantly.  He Swung himself up on to one
       of the drawhorses and, grabbing his mane, he urged it into a
       head-on gallop towards the charging Goblin chief.  The frantic
       beast bolted, dragging the other drawhorse with it.  But the
       second horse, once given a lead to follow, immediately took up
       the pace, and the wagon lurched forward, picking up speed.
       Foulblade was forced to swerve to one side to avoid the collision
       , and pulled his horse up short as the wagon thundered past him.
       He ground his sharp teeth and snarled angrily as he turned to take
       up the pursuit.  He would not be denied his victory prize!
          His scimitar bit once more; but this time it was the flanks
       of his own horse which felt its bite.  The terrified steed,
       though exhausted, gave a high-pitched squeal and leapt forward
       with renewed vigour, through the Goblins and Strongarms locked
       in battle, to pursue the wagon.  Again the scimitar slashed,
       and bloodied the beast's other flank.  He was closing rapidly
       on the wagon!
          Seconds later the two were alongside each other.  The Goblin
       steadied himself.  Then, with a daring leap, he jumped from his
       horse on to the wagon.  Donnag Kannu looked round round in despair
       to see the bulky creature crawling awkwardly over the jostling
       wagon to its seat, where the reins were tied.  Its gnarled
       fingers grasped the reins and tugged on them.  The confused
       horses reacted hesitantly but their pace began to slow.  An evil
       grin spread across Foulblade's mouth as he sensed the success.
          Kannu thought quickly.  With a shortword he was no match for
       a fully armoured Goblin chief.  Cargo or no cargo, he must escape!
       Instinctively he drew his sword and, with a swift chop, slash
       through the horse's traces and dug in his heels.  The leather parted
       instantly and his mount broke free of the harness that bound it
       to the wagon.  As he galloped off into the night, Kannu turned
       to see the Goblin chief standing, cursing, on the wagon behind him.
       The creature may have win its prize, but his orders had been to l
       leave no survivors: his master would not be pleased.  And little did
       he know of the consquences of his failure.  How could he guess the
       events that were to follow?
          When Foulblade arrived back at the scene of the ambush, the battle
       was over. His Goblin pack had been reduced in numbers, but they
       had still overwhelmed the Strongarms.  Mutilated bodies from both
       sides littered the area.  The surviving Goblins were recoving.
       In the cool night air their panting breath steamed from their
       snub noses and wide mouths.  They snarled ineffectually at their
       lifeless foes and one or two were feasting on the still-warm
       horseflesh.  The younger members of the party were taking delight
       in tormenting a couple of badly wounded Strongarms whom they had
       found.  Their swords would eventually silence their prisoners'
       whimperings, but until they had had their fun.
          The Goblin chief climbed down from the wagon and stepped over to
       his battle-sergeant, Orcleaver.
          'Foulblade take ca'van,' he announced proudly, pounding the
       exhausted sergeant on the back.
           Orcleaver grunted in reply, and the two of them surveyed the
       scene of the battle.  Orcleaver did not particularly admire his
       superior - but he knew that he was next in line for the chief's
       position, so he remained loyal.  For the time being, it suited
       his purpose.
           'Wagon here. We look. Gold!'
           Together they climbed on to the wagon and rummaged among the
       boxes and sacks which the caravan had been transporting to its
       destination in Western Allansia.  Several more Goblins came over
       to join them but were ordered away by Foulblade.  If there was
       gold in the cargo, he wanted as few sharing it as possible.
           'Fou'blade! HERE!' The stocky sergeant stepped back to let his
       chief look into a sack he had opened.  At first Foulblade was
       angry: this sack did not contain gold! But then, as the aroma of
       its contents reached his nostrils, his expression turned to one
       of curiosity.  The sack contained some sort of ground-up herb,
       dried and flaky;its rich, sweet odour hung heavily in the air
       above the opened sack.  A contented expression had spread across
       Orcleaver's face and his eyes were fixed on some imaginary point
       far beyond the sack.  Foulblade felt his own head swimming and
       the noises round him faded, not to silence, but to an indistinct
       background hum.  His mouth dropped open and his unfocused eyes
       gazed vacantly at the sack..

        'Chief! Master! See! Look this! A yound Goblin came running up
        to the wagon, grunting excitedly and clutching something in his
        hand. The clanking of his scimitar against his armour startled
        the drawhorse, and the wagon lurched forward, sending Foulblade
        and his sergeant sprawling.  Both Goblins were awakened by the
        sudden jolt.  They picked themselves up and scowled at the
        youngster.
           The panting Goblin stopped beside the wagon and held out his
        hand. 'Find this!' he spluttered. 'Round neck human! More on
        others! See!' Hanging from his clenched first was a leather
        thong.  As his fingers slowly uncurled, the two Goblins gasped
        as with a single voice.
           'No! Not pos'ble! stammered Orcleaver. 'Gods' eyes, NO!' But
        the evidence was there before them. They fell silent as they
        realized what they had done.  And they shuddered at the possible
        consequences.  For, lying in the Goblin's dirty plam, was a
        medallion of dull metal with two figures - the number '85' -
        cast into it.

   To be continued ...
      Dire Dread Warz is copyright by Fizzban (c)