Ishla's Finest

[Norsepal]

There was nothing anyone could have done at Hillfort Ishla.

Times before the Longest Year weren't kind to that bloodsoaked ruin, even before the goblins and the giants and whatever else crushed their way through, and with the horde of monsters arrayed against it, they dragged every willing (and unwilling) hand to the crumbling walls to fight a hopeless battle. Not that that stopped half the garrison from deserting and marching right out the gates to join the invaders' army. Even that damnable pig captain, Amlos Xomnag!

I was there, I know. I saw thousands of glittering eyes in the dark, reflecting our torches, with the looming shape of giants blocking the stars and moon from our view. There were a handful of us near the end, only barely enough to hold the walls. Good souls. Brave souls. I watched them die.

But let me start from the beginning, there's no sense at all starting at an end.

~

"True book?!"

"True book, Ined." Dalzin said.

Zinner was home. A good home, even. Nothing had really changed when the magic stopped, save for a few less caravans on the road to Tethyr. We still fished the rivers, we still raised levies when goblins came by to steal chickens, and we still kept a watchful eye on the Small Teeth.

That was where things were likely to come from, you see. The last few years, we'd heard rumors of forces gathering there. Increasing raids. We hadn't seen the worst of them yet, but rumors spread like wildfire. The newest lot, well...

Dalzin had his mouth flapping. Couldn't help himself; lad spent most of his time talking with the traders so he knew what news was being passed around, and this was a dragon of a story.

"A horde! Goblins, ogres, dragons, ghosts, vampires, GIANTS! All of them, sweeping over the Teeth!"

It sounded outlandish. It was outlandish. But the militia had seen movement from the local groups of goblins, and the forest seethed with a quiet that didn't seem right. They were moving west, from the tracks.

It hung like a loan upon one's books.

Already, a crowd was beginning to gather in the commons, mumbling at the things Dalzin was excitedly yelling at me. Mixtures of fear, worry, and trepidation filled the eyes of the onlookers; this was going to be bad for business.

At the peak of the murmurs of discontent, however, a party was seen riding on the road, a haggard set of outriders carrying a standard belonging to the Hillfort. I thought, perhaps, their battered and rusted gear was evidence of a hard-fought battle. I was wrong, but I did not even conceive how wrong I would be.

The Captain was at the head of the outriders. I still remember him well, because unlike the rest of his men, his armor was gleaming. Perfect. Not a single detail was off, save for the look in his eyes.

“Gather up, all able-bodied men and women of Zinner! Form lines, tallest to shortest! Elderly and Children in another line for inspection!”

He leered at us; it resembled how Zandt, the town butcher, regarded a fresh cow for the slaughter.

And then he looked at me, and I knew that there would be monsters in the guise of men I would have to fight against before this was over.

 

[Norsepal]

“Harin! Are y’gettin’ the barrel from the barn?!”

Granny Isolde was one of those that wasn’t picked. A bent over crone at over 80 years, she was one of only a handful who wasn’t. Her husband, Harin, the town cobbler, was also not coming; his club foot made him useless, and he wasn’t much younger than her.

I had done many a job for them in the past, hauling water and tending the garden when Granny’s gout was acting up. I never really caught onto all the lectures she gave me about each of the plants, although she certainly did seem to know a lot.

She attributed all sorts of outlandish properties to many of the herbs; in older times, she said, some of these were powerful indeed. Now, only green leafy sprigs, poking out of moist soil.

“ONLY A BIT LONGER DEAR!”

I heard the thunk-thunk-thunk of Harin struggling down the ladder, and Isolde regarded me with a kindly smile, though her eyes were filled with sadness.

“We don’t have much, you know.”

I quirked an eyebrow at that. “... What do you mean?”

“Not much left of what we once had. Most of it… Mm, lost. Thrown out. Destroyed.”

Wood scraped against wood, before another thunk sounded from the barn. Harin slowly rolled the greasy, oily barrel across the ground towards us, before stopping it, resting his club foot atop the clearly heavy object.

“Aye, but we kept some.” He nodded, a smile on his face. The smile didn’t meet his eyes, though; much like his wife, his eyes were filled with their own sadness. And a resignation.

“Broken One’s will, none of this’ll be, ah, broken!” He fingered nervously at a red cord around his wrist. “It wasn’t broken when I put it in there, at least.”

He took out a solid bit of metal. It was a dagger, one of the finest I had ever seen. It was odd that Harin had it, but most things about the old couple were odd.

At least they weren’t wizards, though.

With a swift motion, he pried open the barrel, releasing a flood of oil and a rancid stink that filled the air, causing me to wheeze and retch off to the side. The other two seemed unaffected, however. As if they were used to the smell.

Harin shuffled through the oilcloth-wrapped piles left within the barrel, and pulled out a few bundles, wrapped tightly. He began peeling away the layers of the oilcloth, and my eyes widened.

“It’s… Armor?”

“That it is, Ined. And it hasn’t been worn in a very, very long time.” Harin sighed, starting to take rags to clean the excess grease and grime from the metal.

“At least twenty years by this point, Harin, hasn’t it been? Ah, a different time then…”

Before me was laid out a chestpiece, a kettle helmet, a set of gauntlets and thigh plates. The metal looked worn, and pits of rust had taken root in some places, but it was certainly serviceable, compared to the tatters I had seen the Hillfort’s outriders wearing.

“And finally, this.” Harin had walked back into the barn and returned while I was gawking at the armor. He carried a long, stout ash pole. At the top of it was something tightly wrapped in oilcloth, much like the armor. He unraveled it, revealing the head of a halberd.

“Now, watch me closely. Watch me carefully. You do not have much time to learn this, Ined.”

He entered a practiced stance, and for a moment, I stopped seeing Harin the club-footed cobbler, and I saw a man that had been hardened on the battlefield for almost all of his life.

“Stand firm! Legs slightly bent, halberd head facing the enemy! Stab, chop! Stab, chop!”

He demonstrated some simple maneuvers with the halberd, the head of the polearm singing through the air as if remembering songs of battles long past.

As I watched, Isolde began taking the armor, and placing it upon my body, tightening each of the straps, and ensuring a snug fit. The final thing was the arming cap, and the kettle helm atop of it.

After that, Harin handed me the halberd, and a look of deep sorrow entered his eyes. The smile melted from his face.

“I remember when I stood there, for the first time. Seeing battle, tasting steel with steel. Things were different then, Ined. People could make mistakes. Now, you can’t afford to.”

He placed a hand on mine. “If things seem hopeless, run. Run, and don’t look back. They will chase you, and you cannot stop, or else you will die.”

“... And what will you do?”

His gaze left me, meeting Isolde’s. Tears entered both of their eyes.

“We’ll be fine. Go.”