Tor-ment

Tholgrim is quick to offer his view on Podast's discovery - he is very firmly of the opinion that the dead plainsmen should be left alone or else the living ones will make whoever did it rue the day they did. Agarn backs his companion up, glaring around fiercely and giving the distinct impression that if any ignore this advice he'll do the plainsmen's work for them! Tholgrim interested to know if there are any other caves that might be defendable, possibly even offer an escape route? Greel shakes his head,
"We might find one we can defend but I hardly think we're going to find a whole system of caverns under the plains now are we? And if we did they'd be full of orcs yes no?"
Podast goes off in search of more caves, Tholgrim suggesting that if he finds nothing suitable then they put their backs to the tor and make a stand. Agarn is minded to actually get on the tor and fight higher up. This might prevent the wolves from getting involved and the orcs aren't likely to be loaded down with missile weapons given what Eleanor said about the state of their equipment. It's the trolls, in Agarn's opinion, that are likely to present the most trouble. They might not be the best spear chuckers in the business but Agarn wouldn't want to be in the way of any spear they chucked.
"Damned if I'd want to be in the way of a spear anyone threw." Swears Goflam.
Agarn suggest that they gain the heights through the use of ropes and grapples. Greel frowns up at the granite slopes,
"Reckon I could scramble up there if I took my mail off.. but no harm in having ropes."
It would be rather ironic to be killed in a climbing accident when copious fanged death is approaching rapidly on a hundred and sixty furry legs and any such incident is avoided with Eleanor's help. The Haquarian still has the power of flight, possibly a factor in her current calm demeanour, and she is of considerable help in the proceedings. Although her spell is not powerful enough to lift two people she can effect a gentle landing for anyone she catches and she can take most of the weight off a man thus making climbing pretty easy. Easy enough for Burthold and Goflam to gain the first step of the tor. Further more nobody needs to be a dead-shot with a grapple since Eleanor flies them up and attaches them in suitable stages.
Eleanor's wonder working does not stop at flight either. She tells Greel about two further spells she plans to use against the foe, after which she'll fly off in search of plainsmen whom she hopes can be convince to come to defend what appears to be a tribal burial ground. Greel is more than happy with all this,
"It's a good thing we brought a woman along lads!"
Tholgrim agrees wholeheartedly despite disparaging comments made earlier in the expedition. He was on the point of saying that Eleanor could go off in search of plainsmen himself!
The mules are a problem. They could be hidden in the cave - Podast uncovered no other significant caverns - but this might be disrespectful to the dead and in any case the trolls would doubtless sniff them out pretty quickly. In the end they are stripped of their loads, which are hauled up the tor, and sent off towards the plains with slaps to their haunches.
Tholgrim has the bright idea of preparing rock piles to pelt any climbing foe with. Unfortunately there isn't much loose rock on or around the tor but having the idea ahead of time gives an opportunity to gather together what little there is and haul it up onto the bare granite slopes for stockpiling. Agarn was thinking along similar lines and spends most of the remaining time in the search for rocks. Life is tough in the north, iron is scarce and often rocks are all folks have to fight with!

The wolf riders come into view, cresting a rise, disappearing into the valley and emerging again a few minutes later. There are forty of them, six trolls loping along at the rear. The orcs may be poorly equipped in general but the wolf riders appear to be the elite and whilst not outfitted to the standard of the Bishan armies they certainly won't be fighting with tooth and claw.
Eleanor makes a brave stand at the base of the tor, the grass swaying around her knees as she waits alone whilst the ten men crouch on the first step of the tor high above her. The orcs circle once, in no particular rush. At last the temptation of a lone woman with no army hidden behind the rocks to spring an ambush is too much for them. A score of warcries go up and in ragged formation they sweep forwards towards Eleanor.
The Haquarian raises her hands an a fuzzy wall of reddish light springs into being right in front of the middle part of the charge. The thing is eight foot high and there is no time to jump in any event. The wolves and their riders pile on through it and in their wake the air fills with a fine haze of blood droplets. The effects are quite variable, much as if they'd ridden through an array of hanging butcher's hooks. One or two pass through with a few scratches, others are jerked off their steeds as if caught in an eye. One wolf tumbles head over heels, its legs coming away one by one before it comes to a halt. Another staggers to a stop having left a trail of intestines stretching back forty feet.
All in all five riders are bought to a halt in one way or another and another dozen receive injuries of some kind. It isn't nearly enough to break the charge though and given their speed a solid barrier would probably have wrecked more havoc. Before the orcs reach her Eleanor rises smoothly into the air and all the foe find to reward their efforts is a hail of rocks from on high.
The orcs hasten away and regroup, allowing their steeds to devour the dead and severely wounded.
"Now the fun starts." Says Voltaire grimly.
Eleanor has another spell to use but it will only bring rewards when combat is taking place or just before. The trouble is this means that in order to use it she'll have to hang around rather than spend the time seeking out plainsmen.
The orcs' blood is up (not to mention splashed over the hillside) and they don't keep the citymen waiting long. They spread out thinning their ranks as they set a loose half circle around the tor's most accessible side. Two orcs are left to watch over the wolf pack. The beasts are far larger than any wolves even Tholgrim has seen and it is a great comfort to be out of their reach. On the open hillside the fight would have been over in minutes, the outcome not ever in question.
The trolls divide into two bands of three and move to opposite sides amongst the orcs. One orc unleashes a cry that is taken up by all the others and the all hasten forward. The tor is too large for eleven swords to defend all sides and the orcs know it. Working feverishly the warriors hurl down rocks, those with bows loosing feathered shafts into the best available targets. The orcs are at a considerable disadvantage and Voltaire is not alone in experiencing the pleasure of sending an armoured orcish warrior on a very likely fatal tumble with a well thrown rock the size of his fist. Podast puts his bow to good use and the first troll to make the step has two arrows jutting from its side. Tholgrim throws all his spears, taking a large orc in the gut, and draws his broadsword.
The three northmen stand side by side, the two giants flanking Agarn who is the best swordsman of the trio. Like everyone else they retreat to the foot of the second step once the battle of the first step is lost and the orcs are swarming in from all directions. Backs to the granite wall the warriors prepare to sell their lives dearly. There are ropes slung to allow access to the next level but the chances of being able to use them without being cut down from behind seem slim.
The trolls were quickest up the slopes and come on at full pelt now, throwing their spears. Goflam takes one through the neck and is slammed into the wall. Greel just turns another on his shield. Voltaire's chainmail proves its worth as another of the serrated spears catches him in the shoulder. The crude weapon is to blunt to pierce his mail but the impact spins him round and surely his arm must be agony to move. Thankfully it wasn't his swordarm!
Eleanor intervenes again, swooping in from above with a spray of something silvery grey from her outstretched hand. The stuff turns out to be webbing and it engulfs the foremost troll, bringing him down with a thud and snaring the feet of the second. Tholgrim roars out to Orth and charges forwards, his fellow northmen surging after him. The warrior is determined to take full advantage of the trolls' incapacity, he's damned if they're going to struggle free and have a go at him later. Agarn and Voltaire find themselves battling a troll a-piece as Tholgrim deals first with the part-trapped troll then the other, butchering them with reckless savagery.
Agarn is completely dwarfed by his foe but he meets its attack fiercely, using skill rather than agility to keep himself alive. Each time the troll reaches for him it meets razored iron, its strength turned against it as the power of its own blows drive Agarn's blade deeper through tough hide and hardpacked flesh than his own muscles ever could. Voltaire is less overwhelmed in terms of size but after his first sword thrust drives home he is badly mauled and thrown down. The troll is about to stamp on the albino's head when a crackling bolt of energy strikes the beast in the chest staggering it and giving Voltaire a moment to roll free.
"Climb!" Yells Greel.
Hard on the heels of the energy bolt come two beams of brilliance, striking the eyes of Agarn's opponent and of the troll behind that. Agarn is able to hack through the troll's throat before driving for the rope and scrambling up behind the axeman, Narco. Voltaire has a hard time climbing but with Eleanor's help he makes it. Narco doesn't, caught in the small of the back by a thrown handaxe. He nearly takes Agarn out as he falls with a despairing cry. Burthold is caught by the ankles and hauled down to die in a flurry of blows.
Eight of the original twelve make it to the second step. Down below three trolls are dead, one is dazzled or blind. The heavy casualties and free use of magic have given the orcs pause for thought and they wait whilst all their number gather on the first step. Eleanor can do no more, she has exhausted her credit with the Goddess of Magic. Although she is a good swordswoman it isn't enough to make a difference and everyone agrees she should fly off to seek help from the nearest plainsmen. Without further ado she jumps into the air, and against natural law, doesn't come down again. She is last seem gaining height as she heads west.

There are twenty eight orcs and three trolls on the step below and seven men on the one above. The odds are not good. The orcs don't relish the prospect of another climb under fire though and don't seem to realise the men have thrown their spears and hadn't time to stockpile rocks at the second stage.
"Come on down you cowards!" Yells one of the orcs at the back.
Another, more sly, adds,
"There are Orthians up there. Come down for a warrior's death or we'll send to the castle for so many archers we can feather you up there!"
Tholgrim hisses that the only hope of survival lies with Eleanor and her mission to enlist the plainsmen. Take this to heart Greel plays for time,
"Alright! Alright! Our witch has fled in any case. We want to go out with sword in hand. Give us an hour to bind our wounds and we'll come down to do battle. Orth willing we'll take the lot of you!" He grins fiercely at Agarn, adding in a lower voice, "Excellent work against that troll - never thought I'd see a man stand up to a beast like that one on one!"
The orcs are left to debate the issue amongst themselves. They aren't too happy at waiting but can't see what they lose by it.
"You've got an hour Orthian. Then we see what colour you bleed."
The orcs settle down to a snack, tearing apart Goflam and Narco and devouring them raw whilst the trolls argue over who gets the best bits of Burthold. Up above the men listen to the wet slurpings of this grisly feast and pray to various gods that Eleanor returns with the cavalry before they get to take their place on the menu!

From an immense and frankly terrifying height just below the high thin trails of cloud Eleanor surveys the plains. To the east the Matteracks march away in a confusion of snow-capped peaks, to the west and south the plains stretch out in their mind-numbing vastness. From her eagle-eye perspective she can see dark stains of herdbeast dotting the green. One in particular catches her attention, appearing more structured than the rest. It is towards this feature that she descends, letting Morana's grip seize her and bear her back towards the ground with speed that the leisurely flight her spell induces could never hope to match.

The plainsmen wheel in tight formation as their leader spots the woman walking across the plains towards them. Four hundred Wind Horse braves gallop across the grass, distracted from their show of strength along the disputed marches by the presence of a single city-woman! It soon turns out that this is no lost traveller. She tells war-rider Siroco a tale of grave-robbing orcs and heroic warriors battling to defend plainsmen dead. The fact that the she then proves herself to be a sorceress by taking to the air like a bird and flying off towards the Holy Rock lend weight to her claims....

"Your hour is up Orth-men. Come down!" Booms the orc-leader.
"We're sharpening our swords." Greel hollers down, "Give us half an hour more..."
"You lying yellow livered women!" Howls the orc, "Better pray you die in the first attack whoreson!"
The assault is inevitable now and it comes within minutes. The third troll has recovered its sight and heads the scramble with its two fellows. Agarn lobs a rock at it and misses by a yard, Tholgrim is more accurate but his lump of granite bounces off the troll's chest without being noticed. Despite the hour there was not much loose rock to gather and the supplies dry up swiftly. The advantage is with the humans whilst they hold the edge and they fight like demons to do so. Agarn's blade blurs in crimson arcs and headless orcs tumble after orcless heads.
Voltaire and Tholgrim make good account of themselves, Tholgrim being particularly proud of one kick to the groin that sends an orc back over the edge taking three others with him. In the end though the front is again too broad and orcs begin to get up on the step in undefended areas, closing in from the sides. The seven men can do nothing but retreat and put their backs to the wall of the third step.
Podast's sword is left in a troll's arm but it doesn't stop that self same troll from picking him up and twisting his head off. Yuran Senic is taken through the left eye by an orcish spear, his friend Chen is run through and cut into pieces. Voltaire's 'dead' arm prevents him making effective use of his shield and when the troll moves in, swinging a two-handed sword in one fist, its unskilled but powerful blow is unopposed. Voltaire goes down like a puppet with cut strings, his left leg all but severed. Agarn is standing over his fellow northman in an instant having split the skull of the orc before him. He fights without care for his safety, intent on destroying the troll before it can finish his friend. Thankfully Tholgrim is on hand to fight with similar ferocity to defend Agarn from the three orcs pressing in on his left. Behind the immediate foe a well over a dozen more orcs throng. Death is inevitable.
The harsh note of a distant horn manages to register through the clamour of battle. Agarn rams his blade home through the throat of a scar-faced orc and pauses, too winded to pull it free, his arms leaden, his strength sapped through a dozen wounds. Death is inevitable... but it doesn't come. Shaking blood and sweat from his eyes he lets the corpse fall. The orcs are running. The wolf pack is being hastened to meet them at the base of the tor. In the middle distance a dark knot of horsemen are thundering towards them.
Greel hobble over clutching his side. He, Tholgrim and Agarn are the only men standing.
"Plainsmen!
Don't reckon they'll catch the wolves on this terrain... saved us though..." He falls face forwards without grace and lies in a widening pool of his own blood.


Mark