The Summer of Hate Part 4 of 4 ( Rounds 7-9)

Round 7:

Alarmed at the prospect of losing the army's booze supply, Ol' Piet and his baggage wagon jogged away from Bungole Bushwhacka  in the direction of the bridge, while The Hermit on the Mount and the Dwarf crossbows rushed in the opposite direction, hoping to save the baggage from Bungole and Oogie's goblins.  As he ran, the Hermit cast cure light injury on himself, and felt the last agonies of his wounds fall away.  Near the monastery, the Helblitzen stepped over the body of their fallen leader and charged into the Orc crossbows.  The Goblin regiments which had been beaten at the monastery were too tattered and demoralized to rally, and streamed off to the east, past Flo's field kitchen.  Flo and her girls jogged out to meet them, dugs flapping about their knees, hoping to catch some weak or wounded ones for 'da pot', but the gobbos evaded their grasp and kept running for the river, where the relative safety of their rafts awaited them.  The fanatic spun menacingly toward the bolt thrower, gurgling and squealing to itself as it went.  Bungole Bushwhacka and Oogie Spazzjabber's goblins pursued the Dwarf baggage train, Bungole driving his boar into the midst of the baggage bearers and killing one of them with a stroke of his long knife.

With so many dead and dying on both sides, it had seemed, for a moment, that the battle might wind down and sputter out, but all along the line, savage fighting broke out afresh.  The Orc bolt thrower crew eyed the goblin fanatic nervously but stuck to their task.  At last a target had appeared, and they weren't about to let it go.  The launched their bolt into the flank of the halberdiers.  The long, terrible shaft lanced through the ranks of the men at arms, killing three of them.  The stone thrower boss once more launched his deadly load toward the middle of the fight between the Razorbacks and the Psycho Squad, hoping to hit the Dwarven contingent commander, who was laying down Orcs with his great sword.  For once he was bang on target.  He hit the Dwarf commander, but he hit a lot of other people, too.  Three Dwarves were killed outright, including the commander of the Razorbacks, and the Dwarf commander was wounded once.  Unfortunately, stones also plummeted into Scarffgagg Sorehead, who was himself wounded twice.  The stone thrower boss winced and began to reload in great haste.  Now that he'd hit Scarffgagg, he supposed he'd better finish him off, or he'd pay for it after the battle. 

Near the monastery, the orc crossbows launched their quarrels into the oncoming ranks of the helblitzen, dropping one of the halberdiers, but lost two of their own as the halberdiers' charge hit home. In the shoving match that followed, the crossbow boys were pushed back across the north-south road.  In the fight between the Red Dragons and the arrer boys, one orc was brought down and speared, but his mates dug their heels in and refused to give ground. 

The sanguine struggle between the Scarffgagg Sorehead's boys and the Razorbacks claimed two more orcs and two more dwarves slain.  Scarffgagg, badly wounded and with only his standard bearer still alive and fighting with him, was borne backwards by the dwarves and shoved into the ranks of the snotlings, who now became embroiled in the fight as well.

Round 8:

Having finished off Scarffgagg and his lot, the dwarves wade into the snotlings.  For reasons best known to themselves, the snotlings choose to fight back mainly with rude gestures, and fare poorly as a result

Morning had passed and the sun hung high and hot over the blood field beside the hamlet of Muffburg.  The little meadow was choked with the dead and dying, yet galvanized by their shared hatred, the two sides continued to hack and claw at one another.  Leaping over the wall of the monastery, the last two monks raced toward the flank of the Orc crossbow boys, who were being pushed back further and further by the helblitzen.  A crossbow boy and a halberdier fell in the tussle, but the orcs, though pushed back, fought doggedly on.  Beside them, the arrer boys and the Red Dragons remained locked, but the Dwarves seemed finally to be getting the best of their foes.  One dwarf and no less than four orcs fell, and the arrer boys were driven back yet again.  Nearby, Scarffgagg Sorehead and his standard bearer were finally overcome, the Dwarf Commander laid the Orc Chief low with one last terrible stroke from his two handed sword.  Characteristically, Scarffgagg refused to go down without a fight.  One of his meat cleavers spitefully found its way through the Dwarf Lord's mithril armor, wounding him again. It was not enough to take the gallant Dwarf down.  As Scarffgagg's standard went down beneath the press, the Dwarves pushed on into the mass of the snotlings, carving through the tiny creatures as though they were hacking down thistles.  The lame weapons of the snots rang and snapped uselessly off the Dwarves' armor, but incredibly, they decided to keep on fighting. 

The surviving monks rush to help the halberdiers finish off the crossbow boys

Nothing seemed to be going right for the Orcs.  The bolt thrower crew tried to get another shot off at the halberdiers but, distracted by the specter of the Goblin fanatic who was spinning around behind them, dangerously close, they lost their concentration and missed their shot.  The stone thrower crew took aim once more at the mass of orcs, snotlings and dwarves near the bridge, but the boss was too busy sampling some tidbit he'd just removed from his nostril to judge the distance properly.  His shot fell short.

Bad Bloody Frumpkin's lads rally on the very edge of the battlefield.  Dammit, I need to get myself some backdrops!

Near the baggage cart, Bungole Bushwhacka cut down another baggage handler but, determined to defend their precious booze, Old Pete and his surviving minions refused to rout.  Oogie Spazzjabber and his lads tried to charge into the fray around the wagons, but got hung up in the trees around the monastery wall and couldn't quite make it into contact.  The crossbows and the Hermit on the Mount continued to jog toward the spirits-laden wagon, the Hermit casting Strenghth of Combat upon himself as he ran. 

At the other end of the meadow, the last two goblin archers fled off the field while Bad Bloody Frumpkins' eight remaining goblins rallied for some reason, turned about, formed up and got ready to head back to the fight.

A climactic clash appears to be brewing around the coveted booze wagon...

Round 9:

The monks charged home against the crossbow boys.  In the fierce scrap that followed, two orcs and a halberdier were slain.  The Red Dragons' shield wall jostled the arrer boys back once more, their hedge of spear-points bringing down another three orcs in the process

The Dwarf contingent commander stepped into the place of the Razorbacks' fallen lord.  Shouting to the weary but still bloodthirsty dwarves to follow him, he waded into the snotlings, carving great, bloody swaths through the green throng with his great sword.  Somehow it finally dawned on the snots that they were badly outmatched.  Their tiny brains were suddenly flooded with terror and they turned to run with the dwarves in hot pursuit.





Close by, the worst fears of the bolt thrower
crew regarding the fanatic were confirmed
when the wretched creature suddenly changed course and caromed straight through them, killing them both and leaving the bolt thrower standing suddenly unmanned and forlorn.  The demented, blood-stained goblin swept on, heedless, and plunged into the waters of the nearby stream.  The hood of his black cloak was last seen bobbing upon the dark water, carried downstream, under the bridge and off the battlefield.  Their attention absorbed entirely by this appalling sight, the stone thrower crew missed their shot yet again.  Bad Bloody Frumpkin and his few remaining gobbos began marching back toward the fight.  No one could say quite why, as there was nothing that they could do now which could possibly make a difference to their lost cause.  Flo and her girls were already packing up their field kitchen and preparing to depart in great haste, as they could now clearly see which way the wind was blowing.

The Dwarf crossbows shot two of Oogie Spazzjabbers' gobbos stone dead as they charged home against the dwarf baggage train.  The goblins hacked desperately at the dwarf farriers but their blades and clubs found no mark.  The Hermit on the Mount rushed into battle with Bungole Bushwhacka but found himself wounded twice for his trouble as the tough old orc scout fought back like a wildcat.  For a moment, things looked grim for the army's beer supply. 

But by now, anybody could see that the battle was as good as over.  Snarling, Bungole seized the reins of his mount and turned the stubborn beast about.  Hoisting one last middle finger over his shoulder, he disappeared into the trees near the road.  Oogie Spazzjabber and the remains of his gang followed him, and the exhausted dwarves were content to let them go.
 

The healing potion had been just enough to keep him alive.  In all the commotion, he'd been able to drag himself away through the piles of the dead.  As he approached the edge of the battlefield, the sounds of strife fading behind him, Flo and her girls had spotted him and come running, knives and cleavers gleaming.  He'd lifted a claw at them and made it crackle and glow with a purplish black light that promised most unhealthy things.  Flo and her lot had gone sulkily back to their pot.  He kept crawling.  Curse it!  It should have been so easy.  He had expected some humies...but stunties?  Where had they come from?  If only he'd known, he would have done things differently.  He stopped for a moment among the twisted roots of a great tree, wishing he'd had another healing potion.  Or some booze, at least.  If only he'd known...he might have deployed his stikkas and big shooty machines in a line in front of his Orc mobs...that would have forced the pinkies to come to him...they would have gotten chewed up by arrers and crossbows and big rocks and fanatics long before they reached his line, then the Orcs could have finished them...but it didn't happen that way.  They had gotten jammed up in that little field, no room to spread out and get round 'em.  War machines had got stuck in the back...couldn't see...

He noticed a skull laying near him.  It was a very old skull, a root tendril growing through an eye socket.  He supposed it was a sign, and forced himself to move on.  The fanatics!  They should have put paid to a good number of pinkies, but no!  Right out of the gate, they'd gone almost no distance at all, and as soon as they'd lost their bearings, they'd gone the wrong way and carved a gory swathe straight through the ranks of their own friends, curse them!  What a disaster! 

He came out of the woods.  Now he could see the familiar and welcome shapes of the rafts lying on the reedy riverbank.  Some goblins and snotlings started when they saw him.  "'Ere, you lot!"  he croaked, get one a dem rafts ready!  We're leavin'.  I done killed all da humies.  Dere ain't none left.  Let's go!"  The little creatures dutifully hauled their master onto a raft and grunted, gurgled and sweated as they poled the rickety craft out onto dark waters of the great river.  They didn't even ask what had happened to everybody else, or where all the loot was.  Rufuss Drakk lay exhausted on the edge of the raft, one bloody, stinking foot trailing in the water.  What could ya do when so many things went wrong all at once?  Well, he thought, gazing at the afternoon sky, there'd be another day...  A day when his luck would be in.

***

The little column of carts and wagons filled with the women and children of Muffburg hurried on down the west road, headed for the safety of The Refnsburg.  In the late afternoon, they met the Margrave of the Sudmark coming the other way with ten knights, one hundred retainers, and some of the sherriff's men.  The Margrave sent the little caravan on toward the Refnsburg with two knights and twenty foot as an escort, and hurried on to Muffburg.  Near evening, as the innumerable frogs and crickets began to raise their voices above the fragrances of the summer woods and meadows, he arrived at the scene of battle.

A pyre had been built for the bodies of the greenskin scum, and a few dwarves were setting it alight.  The tounges of red fire shone out bright in the slowly gathering dusk.  Near the Monastery the Margrave found two monks trying to pull down and expand the wall which enclosed their little habitation.  The were trying to make room inside for the graves of the men who had died helping to defend it.  Amoung these were Erich von Nashorn and Johann von Treuehardt.  The Margrave had known both men well.  He thought of von Nashorn's eldest son, little more than a boy, he'd soon find himself thrust headfirst into unforgiving manhood.  Yet the father had left the son a proud mantle to wear.

The monks had offered to bury the fallen dwarves at the monastery as well, but the Dwarves had politely declined.  The Dwarves would be returned to their home, and laid to rest beside their fathers in ancestral vaults that lay deep within the roots of the Thunder Mount.  Already the Dwarves were hewing down boughs and binding them together to make carts and travois with which to bear their martyrs home.  The Margrave thought of the four heros, two Dwarven, two Human, that had died side by side... the poet's old line rose in his mind..."A noble fellowship of death."  Now who had written that?

Men and Dwarves seemed busy enough in their grieving and in their labors that no-one seemed very interested in talking to him, so taking a few men with him, and leaving the others to help, he rode down to the river.  The great water rode low in his channel, as was his wont this time of year.  Near the water's edge, some of von Treuhardt's men had gathered a pile of fresh hewn stakes and another pile of something else.  Riding nearer, he saw what it was...the heads of all the greenskins killed on the field at Muffburg.  The men, some with tears of loss and hatred still in their eyes, began driving stakes into the high, mossy bank, and fastening the sightless, thoughtless housings of their dead enemies atop them, a ferocious warning to any who might think to return this way.

The Margrave did not disturb them.  He turned in the saddle to look east.  High above the darkening bed of trees and the smooth brown shadow of the great rivers' waters the sky was purpling, and a few silver stars were beginning to shine out.  The wind from the east was hot and sere, carrying nothing of the moisture of the river.  Though the wind blew the wrong way, he could smell a little the smoke of the great pyre beginning to burn behind him.  It was the longest day of the year.  Soon, another summer would begin to fade.