25th Day of Goodmonth, 565 CY
The Aerie, The Pomarj
Elrohir couldn't hear.
The god's roar had temporarily deafened him.
Seeing that his companions were similarly impaired, the ranger motioned them with gestures to the north as soon as they were able to stand. The quaking of the earth quickly subsided again to a low rumble beneath their feet but did not disappear.
Following from the rear, Elrohir was again gripped with both sympathy at how badly injured his friends were, and amazement; and perhaps even pride, that they were still moving at all.
Tojo and Sitdale were bruised and covered with dirt and dust but were otherwise relatively healthy. Cygnus, aside from his head wound, also seemed in fair shape as he guided the limping Aslan along. The paladin's right arm and waist bore fresh scars, but he ignored them as he tugged, once again in vain, at the metal band encircling his head.
Argo's right side was trickling blood from a recent wound; possibly from being slammed against a hard stone wall during the quake. The big ranger was concentrating only on Thorimund, who looked very pale but was keeping pace, if only just.
Elrohir had to look away from Arwald, who was carrying Talass over his shoulder now. It hardly seemed a dignified way to treat her, but the ranger reminded himself that Arwald would be able to move faster that way, and that questions of dignity and decorum were no longer of any concern to his wife.
His late wife.
Zantac and Unru also looked in fair shape, though heavily winded. Sir Menn was bleeding from a head wound, courtesy of a falling rock, but was still going as strong as any of them. Nesco, her own head bandage wet with blood and grime, stumbled along beside him, almost every inch of her skin seemingly covered in a grey coating of dust.
Elrohir looked at his hands. Judging by them, he was probably just as dirty. His right palm throbbed an angry red; infected no doubt, and his back was killing him. He was trying against to keep from sinking into a sea of despair when his hearing began to return.
"Over there!"
His compatriots, understanding the ranger by either word or gesture, nodded and altered their course slightly to the northwest, exiting the forest at the closest possible point to the road. There were small copses of trees on the other side of the road that blocked any further view to the north, but they seemed to thin out towards the west, where the road curved around to the north a hundred yards or so distant. The party followed the road, Elrohir making sure along the way that everyone's hearing had indeed returned. He also had everyone spread out a little bit more.
They had just begun to make the turn in the road when Tojo and Sitdale stopped. The samurai looked back over his shoulder.
"We have company," Tojo announced. "They awready see us."
Eight armed men stood in the roadway, perhaps forty feet from the party. They looked a motley lot; each covered with some dirt and bruises themselves. All wore leather armor, but only five had the Suderham insignia on their tabards and the distinctive bat-winged helmets. The other three wore cruder apparel, little more than arming doublets and cuirasses. They wore no helms.
Seven carried long swords that they drew upon seeing Elrohir and his party. The other carried a short sword and a shortbow in his hand. The archer was already backing up towards some trees on the far side of the road, an arrow moving from quiver to his free hand.
Elrohir decided these folks didn't look like the sort who would respond to pleas for mercy. He decided to try a show of strength.
The ranger stepped forward, seemingly oblivious to his near-nudity and addressing them as if he were a knight in full plate.
"What are you people doing here? Why aren't you evacuating the island? Can't you see what's happening?"
The largest and ugliest of the guardsmen; Elrohir never could figure out why the most brutish always seemed to be the spokesman, did not seem impressed.
"Well, whadda we have here?" he sneered to the closest soldier. "Looks like escaped slaves to me! Could get a bundle for recapturing 'em. Whadda you think?"
"I still think we'll find more from lootin' Drachen Keep," the other responded.
"Yeah, if it ain't gone up in flames already," the first retorted.
"Wow!" yelled one of the thugs, pointing now at Nesco, naked lust in his eyes. "You do what you want with the others- that one is mine!
Lady Cynewine narrowed her eyes. Her heart was pounding in her chest, but she wasn't going to let any of these scum see her flinch.
"Waid a minute," the first guardsman said, peering again at the party. "They- they ain't slaves! Those are the outsiders what god thrown in the dungeons!"
"Damn!" the second shouted. "You're right! That is them! We'll get a lot more from turnin' their heads over to The Nine then we'll ever find scroungin' around the keep!"
Evil grins in place, the seven swordsmen slowly began to advance.
Elrohir turned to regard his team.
Running was not an option. They wouldn't get far.
He didn't like the idea of taking on armed and armored foes with their bare hands, but there seemed to be little choice.
"Zantac," Elrohir whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "give me our last shellfish dagger."
"I don't have it anymore," came the swift reply. "I gave it to Cygnus."
The ranger turned to request the makeshift weapon from the tall mage; and then stopped.
"Aslan," Elrohir said quietly, "where in The Nine Hells did Cygnus go?"
The paladin turned to his friend; one eyebrow raised.
"He's gone to do some light reading."
Elrohir sighed. "Well, then, here's the plan…"
Crouched in a concealing mass of ferns, the archer widened his eyes in surprise as he saw the dozen naked ex-slaves charge his companions.
Desperate to die, I guess, he thought. Well, I'm happy to oblige.
He let fly at one in the lead; a short man; half-elven, possibly.
His target spun around on the ball of his right foot, tilting his body back slightly, and the archer's arrow passed harmlessly by.
The half-elf completed his spin and was moving again before the errant arrow even landed.
The bowman frowned again and notched another arrow.
There was a nearby rustling in the leaves.
The archer whirled about but saw no one.
"Who's there?" he called out.
"Just an invisible enemy," a voice called out from behind him.
An arm materialized around the archer's neck and pulled him backwards as a great burning pain erupted in his back. The archer could feel sharp edges cutting into him even as his struggles weakened…
The lead guardsman swung his longsword in a horizontal arc as what he guessed was some kind of Kara-Turan monk ran up to him- and leapt into the air.
His enemy was far too close to attempt such a foolish maneuver, but somehow the monk was already airborne; the guardsman's weapon slicing only the air beneath him.
What might have been a knee slammed into the warrior's face. He couldn't tell; from the force of the impact, it might as well have been a giant-hurled boulder.
He wasn't given the time to recover and find out.
Elrohir, breathing heavily, looked up from the body of the thug he had slain.
As he had expected, or at least hoped, they had been victorious. All seven lay dead on the ground, slain mostly with their own weapons taken from them after being grappled and overborne. He could see Cygnus strolling nonchalantly out from the trees as well, short sword in hand.
Even better, all his friends had not sustained any serious injuries.
Except one.
Elrohir was only a step behind the others as they all ran up to Aslan.
The paladin was on his knees, his hands clamped over his left side. He was trying and failing not to let it show how much it was hurting. Moving slower than the others due to his ankle, Aslan had been cut him before tackling his enemy to the ground.
With some difficulty, Sitdale pulled Aslan's hands off. "Let me see," the half-elf ordered him, calmly but firmly, and the paladin desisted.
The cleric/wizard/ranger/ranger examined the wound and looked up to the others. "It's not immediately mortal, but we can't just let it go, either. I need some time to tend to this."
"Right now, that's what we have the least of," Elrohir responded grimly. "We've got to get off this island first. Let's take their weapons and armor. We should be able to see the city just a little ways down this road. We'll skirt around it and head towards Scumslum and the docks."
As Aslan rose to his feet, the paladin glared at his team leader.
"Still think I'm useful?" he muttered.
The dozen tired and bedraggled individuals trudged down the road.
As much as wearing armor again felt natural to Elrohir, Argo, Aslan, Sir Menn and Arwald, they were even more aware of their injuries now. The bloody, torn and filthy underclothing the bandits had worn provided no relief from the leather armor chafing against everyone's bruises, scrapes and cuts.
Only one of the brigands had been short enough to provide armor for Sitdale to wear, and the half-elf had gallantly offered it to Lady Cynewine. Nesco briefly considered declining, but she couldn't stand the thought of even more people seeing her wearing nothing but a loincloth, so she accepted gratefully. She felt better when Sitdale claimed the bow and arrows as his own, and no one begrudged them to him.
Nesco was startled when as they walked side-by-side, Tojo suddenly leaned over to whisper into her ear.
"My daisho probabry in Srave Rord's fortress- Drachen Keep," the samurai said. "Once I have seen you safery off this isrand, I wirr go back and find them."
Lady Cynewine looked quickly back up at Tojo before he could turn his eyes away.
"We will go back, Tojo-sama," she reminded him.
"By the Aesir."
Elrohir could do no more than whisper at the incredible scene before them.
The party stood on the edge of the high plateau that surrounded the town of Suderham on three sides. From here, they had an excellent view of the city.
Or what was left of it.
All four corner guard towers had fallen. The center of the south wall, facing them, had collapsed as well from the earthquake. A number of buildings had crumbled as well, but it was hard to see anything any distance inside the city.
Because of the gas.
A gigantic plume of some kind of yellow smoke, clearly denser than the surrounding air, was pouring down the plateau from a line located perhaps two hundred yards to the party's left. It flowed right through the break in the stone walls and was rapidly spreading throughout the entire city.
And just as the group turned to follow the smoke to its source, the sky grew dark.
Mount Flamenblut had swallowed the sun.
The volcano rose above the burning forest perhaps a mile to their southwest. The continuous ash cloud pouring out and up from the erupting crater had now blocked out the sun and covered three fourths of the sky, leaving only a twilight's light left to see by.
The plume of yellow gas rose up from the volcano's center as well, only to immediately roll down the mountain's southern flank, heading towards town. Smaller vents from the volcano's flanks also issued smoke rivulets, which quickly joined the main stream.
And then there was the lava.
Faint wisps of steam to the west of the volcano suggested that the molten rock had reached the lake to that side, but the group's attention was riveted by the solid, if uneven, curtain of lava that was flowing down towards the north and east.
Due west of their current position, Elrohir could see the cave entrance that they had initially entered The Aerie from. The lava had already reached it and was slowly making its way down the hill towards Suderham. A tendril of magma further west had extended even further down, but it was slowing down while moving through the flat croplands west of the city.
Based on how fast the lava seemed to be moving at the moment, Elrohir estimated they had perhaps an hour; maybe a little more before the entire island was overrun.
But within that hour, the team leader was going to have to perform still one more miracle; somehow find a boat or other method to get them off this island.
The ranger heard a gasp beside him.
And then a blur as a figure bolted past and began running down the slope at full speed.
Directly towards Suderham, and the yellow smoke.
"Zantac!"
The Willip wizard paid no heed to Elrohir's shout. His heart was pounding in his chest as badly as when he had been hanging by a thread over the chasm. His legs were throbbing in protest as he pushed them harder and harder to go faster and faster.
Zantac didn't care. All he cared about right now was speed.
And as he dashed down towards the city walls, the mage found the energy to scream out the one word that was filling his heart with pure, unadulterated panic.
"BERYL!"