Bad Moon Rising

A gibbous moon hung malignant over a quarter of the purple sky above the nagrand velt. The abandoned song of the night birds and the sudden silence of the roaming clefthoof told the pair at the campfire that something was amiss as clearly as an alarm claxon.

Kargall cursed under his breath as the smaller of the two humans moved away from the fire and seemed to vanish into the evening shadows. The larger, armored human donned his helm, made a mystical sign of consecration at the ground around him and held up a huge sword as he put his back to the campfire.

“Get’em!” The Kil’sorrow spellbinder ordered his squad. The orcs of the crone’s handpicked Deathsworn leapt up from the tall grass and rushed to attack.

“You stay here,” the magic user growled at Magog, drawing a frustrated mutter from the largest of the axe wielding squad. The huge orc’s frustration became more pronounced when his brother Gog howled his battle cry as he reached the campfire.

The consecration spell might have terrified as well as injured Gog, but at the same instant he began to feel it the human at the fire gestured and a huge magical hammer came flying into the charging orc’s head. This was followed by a leaping two handed downstroke with the Paladin’s enchanted greatsword, slashing through armor, laying open his chest and all before Gog could bring his battleaxe to bear. Gog’s tiny brain might have objected to the unfairness of the knight’s spinning attack not only hitting the four nearest Deathsworn but also healing the minor wounds his fellows had managed to inflict on the paladin, but as this same slash had started him on his journey to the next plane of existence, Gog’s so-called mind was elsewhere.

Kellack, sitting on the opposite side of the campfire from the planned attack direction in order to catch the humans if they fled,  had been warned and knew that he would be severely punished if he used his magic to attack the humans before Kargall, but the Kil’sorrow’s second spellbinder was growing impatient waiting for the team leader’s attack. Little did he know his leader’s difficulty.

Kargall had been about to launch a devastating magic missile attack on the human at the campfire when a crushing blow to the back of his head had left him stunned and dizzy. He dimly heard the roar of his blinded bodyguard before Magog charged off into the tall grass.  Mac the mace vanished to stalk the perimeter in search of other magic users.

Chalker’s forged cobalt claidheamh mòr batted aside a Deathworn battle axe and its backswing sliced through the forearm of another attacker. The remaining Orcs were too absorbed in their own battle lust to be surprised or fearful of the enchanted blade or of the seemingly endless stamina of the paladin wielding it.

Mac dropped the wire noose about the orc spellbinder’s neck before Kellack knew he was there. When the noose was tight enough to draw blood, the rouge released the handles and, quickly pulling his maces, smashed his doubled over victim in the kidneys as the magic user tried to free his throat. When  Kallack spun to face his attacker the rogue caught him on the chin with one mace and in the groin with the other. As the spellbinder fell to his back, Mack the mace jumped on him and used his paired namesakes to pulp the magic user’s head.

Magog’s eyes still burned from the powder the small human had thrown but his vision was returning. In his small brain the concept of protecting Kargall, warred with: frustration over being attacked and not striking back; bloodlust; and a warrior’s desire to test himself against the human at the campfire. A decision was quickly reached as finding the little human could wait and Kargall wasn’t doing anything but trying to stand without tipping over so, with a roar the huge orc charged the paladin, which is what he wanted to do in the first place.

Five Deathsworn bodies lay in various states of disrepair around the campfire as Chalker pulled his blade from the sixth just in time to see the charging Magog. The paladin was tired but still had his wits about him enough to be wary of the huge enraged orc and his glowing battle axe. Standing his ground until the last second, Chalker avoided the huge horizontal swing of the charging orc by dropping flat. This not only prevented his being cut in half, but combined with the Deathsworn’s momentum, sent that worthy falling face first into the roaring campfire.

The paladin leaped up and chopped down on the screaming orc.  When the blade bit in the Deathwsorn’s back, Chalker simply bore down on the five foot long enchanted sword, pinning his opponent face down in the campfire.  Neither the orc’s screams nor the terrible smell moved the knight to release his opponent until all movement ceased.

Kargall was about to try for the second time to throw magic missiles at the armored human when Mac launched a flying kick to the back of the spell user’s already damaged skull. Beyond interrupting the magic and exacerbating the orc’s concussion, this thrust the spellbinder several feet closer to the now roasting orc campfire. 

The Deathsworn were all large, physically powerful orcs and Kargall as a leader was more physically powerful than most, notwithstanding his reliance on magic over brawn. Shaking his head to clear it, the orc growled and moved his spellstave into and en garde position. Mac spun into an attack which smashed the knuckles holding the stave with one mace, disarming his opponent, while smacking the orc's temple with the other.  Kargall opened his mouth to roar at the indignity of being struck by this small human and swallowed several teeth as Mac threw his left hand mace into the orc’s open mouth.  As he danced in to recover it the rogue shattered the Deathsworn’s knee with his right hand mace.

“Oh, stop playing with him.” Chalker said disapprovingly from the campfire.  “Just finish it”

With a shrug, Mac overwhelmed and killed the spellbinder, muttering “Spoilsport” as he returned to the campfire.