Three:

"He came out from the line in gentleman's clothes, alone in front of hundreds.  He stood there and rose a hand in challenge to us all, and not a few noticed the eye patch he wore.  Colonel Axton laughed at the man, that such a handsome, city bred man would mock those fighting with such bravado.  The Colonel and his three lancers rode out to meet this bold gentleman, ready to skewer him.  The man tossed his hair back and crouched, pulling two curved swords from his side.  The riders rode past and fell from their mounts, dead.  The Gentleman's blades were suddenly shining with blood, though the Gentleman had seemed only to blur!  None saw what happened, but when he approached our lines there was immediate surrender.  All hail the Savage Horde!"

Kannot Kennit, Former Geruvian Regular


The horse plodded on, tired and dirty from the constant rain.  The summer rains of the eastern coast were what kept the nation alive, with much of the summer food growing in this area, while the spring and fall harvests came from the west and south.  If one took their time, the smell of apples, oranges and wheat were right there under the smell of wet dirt and mud, but the horse did not care, so long as it was moving.  Its rider fully cloaked and huddled tight, stared ahead at the road leading to the gates of Kirkland, seat of County Kirk, seat of the Kingdom of Uthradt.  The road from the west had been a long one, with bad weather following him all the while.  He had left a dead horse at the inn "Lucky Day" in the city of Ban, spending quite a bit on a new one from a hostler who was most likely the bandit that had injured the same horse on the road two days before.  The man shook his head in disbelief and irritation for the loss.  Twice he had encountered bandits on the road, and twice there were bodies left to rot in the hinterlands.  But it was odd that bandits would be out in force anyway, for Uthradt was notoriously harsh on such offenders.  At least, the man thought, the bandits had made for a distraction from an otherwise boring trip.  Rain and all.
The rain and mud were not a hindrance for the rider.  The rain was just annoying.  The horse stepped into a large puddle, splashing muddy water into the face of the rider.  Yes, he thought, annoying was the perfect word.
The horse and rider reached the massive gates of the city, left open as tradition warranted.  Rust could be seen on the hinges if someone had taken the time to look, and the grooves in the ground where the lock rods used to slide had long filled in with grass and dirt.  It had been several hundred years since the last attack into the city or around the city, and the guarding force reflected that.  They were lazy men who stood inside the relative shelter of a "guard house"; a shanty of wood and straw that kept out the sun on some days, the rain on others.  Long ago, a few hundred years or so by the reckoning of historians, a magician of great renown had placed a spell on the Oath of Fealty all nobles and landowners took.  The spell did not allow anyone with malicious intent within miles of the city.  Because of this, travelers were free to go where they would, including right up the main road, with no worry.  And as the guards saw it, no one was on the road save this one rider.  With such small traveling bags, a dirty bedroll, and a rider covered in mud and grime it was clearly a poor merchant or failed mercenary looking for a new start.  Or a loan for the gambling houses.  Hardly worth the time had it taken to search and question, let alone move out into the rain for.
As the rider approached one of the guards managed to move to the window of the shack long enough to make a "go on through" gesture with his hand, and then quickly disappeared back into the dry room.  The horse and rider made it through with no resistance at all.  Not promising at all.  The rider had at least hoped for a token of action by the guards.  'Pity', he thought as he passed under the ancient killing holes.  It would have made this job so much easier had they even thought to check him.  
The rider rode through the outer city on the meandering streets that seemed to grow like rivers around this part of the city.  The layout was almost haphazard, as if the construction of the homes was done by an inebriated dwarf.  Or perhaps an inebriated Savage, thought the rider. Minutes later, after passing two patrols of guards and what looked to be a drunk captain, the rider rode through the gates in the Trader's Wall, and found himself in the inner city, better known as the Garden Ward.  It was called that for the many lush gardens and trees that grew between and around estates, making spots of beauty a common occurrence in what would normally been considered a wonderful oddity.  The inner city had once been outside the walls, so room for such novelties had been available.  But growth was rapid, and after time a new set of walls had to be built, and the inner city (The Garden Ward) was born.  Since then another set of walls had been built, and the outer city now housed most of the poorer class, or weak merchants.  The inner city was for the idle rich, business savvy, or the foolish intrepid.
The rider was one of the latter.
He rode through the winding streets until he came to a dirty inn on the fringe of the Noble Wall (the first wall surrounding the keep.  The second wall, surrounding the Garden Ward was the Trader's Wall.  The outer wall was known as the Smuggler's Wall.)  The reason the Garden Ward was often the downfall of many a trader or traveler were the many brothels, gambling houses and inns that housed themselves within.  Compared to the residences and shops, these seedier establishments were often considered dirty, but had resisted many attempts to remove them to the outer city, along with the other less reputable citizens.  Especially establishments like the one the rider planned on entering.  The inn was The Dancing Harlot, an ill reputed inn known for its whores and its ale.  Not the rider's preferred style of abode, but he wouldn't be there long.  He rode into the stable yard and handed his reigns to a miserable looking stable boy.  The rider bent low and whispered something into the boy's ear, causing the boy to go pale and hurry off to care for the horse.  The rider knew, from the look of the boy, that he had said just the thing to keep his possessions his.  Good.  It was not the time for him to have to worry about tracking thieves and pick pockets.  Not tonight anyway.  Now to get to work.
He walked into the inn with rain still dripping from his cloak and strode up to the bar.  A swarthy man who reeked of lavender perfume sat on the other side with a rag, drying semi clean tankards.  The rider eyed the man and produced two silver pieces.  Placing them on the counter he said only, "Room. Upper floor. No name needed."  The man never stopped his drying, but made the coins disappear, he would not argue with two and a half times cost, after all.  The lavender smelling bartender put his work down and walked over to the stairwell, not looking to see if the rider followed.  He led the rider to a room on the top floor (no more than a converted attic, really) and asked if he wanted dinner delivered or in the common room.  The rider gave the man a glare and entered the room, slamming the door in man's face.  The rider turned and surveyed the room; a lone cot, a wooden shelf with a lamp, and an iron bound chest with the key for it hanging on a chain.  He went over and sat on the cot, waiting until the sound of his host's footsteps faded from the vicinity.
With almost exaggerated stealth the rider went to the door, barred it, and then moved over to the small window of his room.  He opened the window and tied a small rope to the inner and outer handle with a complex knot.  The rider climbed onto the little ledge of the window looked across the short gap outside between himself and the Noble wall.  The building was high enough (and attacks into the city far enough in the past to allow such a building to be high enough) that it would be a short jump, and a short climb to scale the wall.  The rider took a small crossbow from his pocket and loaded a blackened scaling hook into and aimed up the wall.  The click of the crossbow was louder than the rider would have liked, but the rain masked it enough so that no one heard.  He lost sight of the hook as it soared over the wall, so he waited until the rope played out and then pulled in the slack until it was taut.  He stuck his head farther out the window so that he could see for sure where the guards were.  There was the shadow of one guard and a watch fire down the wall, but none near to where he had chosen to infiltrate.
The rider held tight to the rope and leapt out into the rain, the secure scaling hook directing a measured swing to the wall.  Just at impact the rider extended his legs and pulled on the rope, changing his momentum enough so that he did not slam into the stone, but rebounded gracefully and came to rest against its notched and poorly maintained surface.  Once he hung securely he pulled on the little rope he had tied to the window.  The window silently swung shut, and the rope fell free for the rider to gather back into a pouch on his belt.  Then the rider began his climb.
Using the countless cracks in the wall he easily was able to find purchase even on the wet wall.  Hand over hand he climbed, using every bit of stealth he had to not make a sound.  Every few paces up the wall he would hang motionless and listen for the guards that should have already noticed his impending appearance.  In a few moments he found himself atop the Noble Wall, no more than a few hundred yards from the keep proper.  All that stood in the way were several hundred barracked soldiers (from the Royal Army) and guards (from the Elite Guard), the stables (of the Royal Lancers), and the homes of various staff too important for the Garden Ward or the outer city.  The rain could cover most of his run, but first he had to eliminate the possibility of being spotted by chance.  He made his way through the shadows to the covered post where the guards were lazing by the fire.  The rider knelt just outside the glow of the fire making sure to count exactly how many guards there were.  His gaze darted through the dim lighted area, marking all his targets.  There was one in a chair at the far end, staring out into the rain.  There were two sitting on the ground eating what appeared to be mutton directly by the fire.  Another sat right by the doorway the rider sat in, only his foot visible, but his location easily found due to his high pitched snores.  After a second sweep he determined no others were around, and that this lazy bunch would be his first set of examples.  
The rider pulled a dirk from his boot and reversed the grip, pommel side out.  With his other hand he took a smooth stone from a pouch on his belt and readied it.  He took aim across the guard chamber and launched the stone at the seated guard.  As the stone flew from his hand he immediately used his dirk to pommel the guard next to him in the skull, laying him low with a sickening crunch.  The stone flew true and struck the seated guard in the back of the head.  The guard crumpled in his seat, dropping a previously hidden crossbow to the floor.  The two guards seated by the fire took no notice of the guard felled by the dirk, but as the crossbow fell to the floor both guards jumped up and looked around.  Neither drew a weapon, thus sealing their fate.  The rider rushed out towards the guards, hands free of weapons.  Both looked surprised as the rider went low, aiming three quick strikes to the stomach of the right most guard, followed by a high kick to the chin, laying the guard to the ground.  Before the second guard could react the rider swept out his leg, knocking the guard's feet out from under him.  A quick double thrust of the rider's fists and the man was unconscious before he hit the ground.  
In seconds the first lesson had been taught, and none of the guards had made a sound, had even known what had hit them.  The rider readjusted his cloak and went back out to the wall, smiling to himself. He opened and closed his hands as he went, admiring the craftsmanship in his new gloves.  Wire mesh on inside the lining meant for a killer hit, but underneath the mesh was a new kind of murkskimmer fur lining, soft, waterproof and highly absorbent.  The rider had barely felt the blows, but the proof was in the blow, and there would be two very sore guards on the morrow.  Then he reminded himself of his reason for being there and went serious again.  Back to work.
He jumped from the wall onto a high flag pole, balancing precariously over the less than stable roof of one house of guards.  He slid down the pole and landed in the soft mud, the rain masking most of the sound.  After a brief pause he was off again, running through the dark, the rain, and the mud straight towards the walls of the main keep.  The rider thought to himself that this must have been a difficult place to invade.  Three walls, a sturdy keep, and the winding streets would make for a costly campaign.  Especially if he was in charge of the defense.  However, with the lax nature of the guards, and disrepair of the walls, all any invader would have to do is attack by surprise, taking out a northern town and quick marching into the capital.  It would soon fall, and most of the merchants would take an usurper with good grace, as long as they lost little profit.  He mused on this for a second before letting his mission take over again.  It was amazing how quickly his mind moved into defensive and offensive thoughts, when his only mission at this moment was security.  But you could not fight what was beaten into you.  His cousins had really trained him well.
In fact, his head could almost feel the pain from said "training" once again.  
But he had to force his mind back to the moment.  After all, his cousins had only shown him that the world was not forgiving of a lazy man, or a wastrel.  Now he had purpose.  He was important.  And, he had a job to do.  He rounded a corner, an alley way that should lead him straight to the keep, and came face to face with a patrolling guard.  The guard began to register surprise on his face, but two quick strikes to the face, along with a knee to his midsection had the man on the floor in pain, rather than on his feet in curiosity.  Perfect.  The rider bent low and retrieved the guard, moving him over to a sheltered spot under a bush, hiding him effectively.
He ran on, taking the alley as a shortcut and making his way to the riding grounds outside of the keep.  Knowing he was almost to his objective the rider increased his speed, trading quickness for stealth.  He vaulted a low fence onto the grounds with a very putrid sounding smack.  The rider looked down at his feet, and grimaced.  He was ankle deep in manure.  Thoughts of the cost to have these boots cleaned flashed through his mind, but he shook it away.  Still, as he moved deeper into the riding grounds the word "disgusting" entered his mind in several thoughts.
Finally he found himself in a sheltered grove of lemon and orange trees, specially imported from the islands in the southeast.  To the front of him, just above the grove was his entrance.  There was an open window about fifteen feet up with no light in it, with a window garden made from a converted archery platform.  Unguarded.  Perfect for his current job, but bad news for the king.  He planned his jump by measuring by sight distance and height, judging his method of attempt.  He reached up and nervously scratched at the eye patch he wore over his left eye.  He was unaccustomed to it, but his ruined eye would have attracted too much attention for his purposes, so he needed to wear it.  Not for much longer though.  So he would be rid of the damned thing.
He scratched at it for a second, and then stood still.  He waited in the dark for any sign that anyone had found the disabled guards, or that pursuit would come.  A minute passed by with rain as the only sound in the night.
He took out his scaling hook once again and held it tightly in his hand.  He paused a moment and calmed himself, and then sprinted out from the dark straight to the wall.  He hit the wall at a run, his boots finding grip in the wet stone that shouldn't have existed.  He ran vertical up the wall until the apex of his momentum had him as high as he could reach.  Then, with a powerful leap, the man sprang towards the makeshift window garden, slamming the hook into the wood.  The archery platform shook from the force of the blow but held strong.  The rider swung himself from his hanging position until he could propel himself up and over the other side of the garden, where he landed on the soft plants that grew there.  He smiled as he realized he had reached his goal; he was inside the keep of King Raymone (The Un-Cheered) of Uthradt.  
He quietly shed his cloak and boots in the room, putting on a dry pair of cloth shoes and another cloak of lighter, darker material that he had stowed in a small pack under his larger cloak.  The pack he left in the room also.  He stood shadowed by the light from the hallway, in light leather armor, a fine protective cloak, his short sword, dirk and one of the scaling hooks he had climbed with.  As well equipped as any assassin should be.
He sped off through the hallways with practiced ease, making no sounds as his feet hit the polished floor.  While he ran he whispered an incantation under his breath, one designed to make people who would normally be in his way to suddenly remember appointments elsewhere.  The rider smiled, as he was finally using magic in something other than practice.  But even so, this too easy.  He ran through the hall, turned right, two lefts, and straight for a bit, then another right.  A large door was at the end of the hall.  He saw that it carried delicate designs in the dark wood, clearly marking the importance of the room beyond.  This had to be the Great Hall, where the king would be going over policy or something similar at this time of night.  Bending low to minimize his body as a target, he went through the door.
And immediately regretted it. Wrong focking door, the rider thought as a group of guards at mess looked at this dark intruder.  Nine guards drew steel and leapt to their feet, spilling the gruel, porridge or whatever they had been eating all over the ground as they readied themselves.  Several of them shouted at the same time, their orders to the intruder being garbled in the fresh tumult of sound.  Finally a large man in a captain's tabard shouted for the rider to lie down on the floor, adding as a threat "or else".
The rider would not go that quietly.  He drew his sword and tapped it three times on the hilt.  A locking mechanism sounded and the sword fell into two separate single edge swords.  The rider stood defiantly, ready for the attack.
The fight began, and he rider began his dance.  Steel rang on steel as he spun through the room, his two blades never drawing blood, but always interposing themselves between the rider's flesh and his opponents’ cold steel.  Twice the guards almost drew blood, but their attacks were clumsy and he was able to slap the blades aside with the flat of one of his blades.  One took a bowl and flung it at him, striking him in the head.  The rider lost his footing for a second, almost falling to the blades.  The rider tired of this game, and was furious at his mistake.  He spun in a fury, delivering his blows with force unimagined by the guards.  He attacked high at a guard, who brought up his blade in a parry, but missed the second strike from the pummel end of the second sword, breaking the guard’s nose and sending him reeling.  The rider leapt up and over the next opponent, slapping at the guards helmet with the flat of both blades, and then striking hard with a kick to the guards back.  The man stumbled forward and fell over the table, taking another opponent with him as he flailed about.  
Without looking the rider struck to his right, hitting the ribs of another guard who tried to take advantage of an imagined opening.  The man fell to the ground in pain, unable to breath from the shock.  The rider kept count of the guards in his head, wondering if he had seriously injured any of the men as he counted down from nine.  He turned and ran towards the door and the two guards who barred it.  "Five down to three," he thought as he ran towards them and judged his next attack.  He drove straight at them, deviating at the last minute to leap onto a large overturned chair, and then springing from the top of that back in the direction of the guards, who had in turn moved to pursue him.  Both had bent to begin to run, leaving their arms low and heads exposed.  As he went airborne the rider kicked out with legs, catching the guards on their exposed heads and sending them down.  The rider landed into a roll and finished in a crouching position, staring at the last of the guards.  
All three looked terrified at the speed with which the rider moved, for only moments had passed since he had intruded on their meal, and only three of the nine remained standing.  Two advanced slowly, and the rider noticed that one of them was a lefty.  Those were always just a bit harder to gauge when fighting.  You wanted to parry right, and missed, if you were not careful.  But the rider was not worried.  He kept his gaze on the two, diverting just enough of his attention to watch the third one, who at the moment was nearing the door.  The rider feinted forward; causing the two advancing forward to throw up their guard, but instead of attacking them he leapt forward and muttered a word under his breath.  As he landed a green glow enveloped the head of the third guard, and he stopped moving and stared blankly ahead with his mouth open.  The other two, realizing what had happened turned to face the rider, and both received the full force of the swords' guards as they came forward, knocking both men unconscious.  
The rider looked around and caught his breath, amazed that he was able to do exactly what he had trained for with little worry.  All nine guards were out of commission, and only one bit of magic had been performed.  The rider walked over to the dazed guard and used his index finger to push on the man's nose.  The guard fell to the floor on his back, still staring off dazedly.  The rider chuckled softly and then exited the room on the opposite side of where he entered.  
He rushed quietly down the hall, hoping to attract little more attention until his objective, after all there was a finite amount of guards in the castle, and he did not want all of them to be insane with anger at him.  Two more turns down increasingly ornate halls and he found his way into the great hall from the rear.  The rider crept behind a large tapestry just opposite the table where the king was standing.  The king was in conversation with an aide, gesturing vigorously over a map.  Neither heard him approach.  In a flash the rider's blade was across the neck of the king before either could react to his presence.  
The king promptly relieved his bowls as he felt the cold steel cross his throat, a whine of fear whistling through his teeth.  The aide fell to the floor in a faint.
The rider released the king and stepped back and bowed with a flourish.  "I just proved, milord that you are truly in danger from assassination.  Your guards were lax, your perimeter weak, and your men poorly trained.  As per our contract I am here to change that and ensure that you survive to govern for the natural extent of your life."  The rider extended a worn piece of parchment sealed at the bottom with the mark of the Savage Horde.
The king's face went from rage, to fear, to calm in an instant, a range of emotion that by appearance the rider thought the king incapable of.  The king was a short man, with a wiry frame that fit his arrogant demeanor.  His cheeks retained some of his child fat, giving him an even more spoiled appearance than his greedy eyes allotted for.  His hair was decidedly bushy, as was the unibrow that crossed his forehead in a perpetual frown.  He had the air of a man who was used to getting his way regardless of the consequences, a man consumed with the idea of his position, without understanding the purpose of the same.  The rider was not pleased by these observations.  He had heard of the king's ineptitude, but he had not imagined it would show forth in his appearance as well.  The king finally composed his face to his normal scowl, and examined the bowing savage as he stepped around him.  The king finished his examination and then stepped to the side, smiling sourly as he did.  He addressed the savage in a voice that was queerly prepubescent saying, “I had not expected you so early, mercenary.  If so, there would have been much preparation for your coming, as there would be for any honored guest.  This little debacle shows nothing really and only costs us time in its pure ineffectualness.  Had you informed me I could have mustered my best men, showing you our strength of arms."
The rider frowned.  "That defeats the purpose of this exercise, my lord."
"Well the savages must have misread my intent in our contract that my advisors so hurriedly pushed me into.  Ah, well Kimvut McCarken, of the Savage Horde, you don't understand, do you?"  The king waved his hand in a dismissive gesture to his aide who was beginning to stir on the floor.  "While others may fawn over the power you represent, I understand the nature that compels you to indulge yourself in such petty games.  I assure you, you would not have been able to embarrass me so if you would have followed protocol."  The man's eyes raged, his face calm.  "But maybe you savages do not understand what is important among civil society."
Boot said nothing in reply to the insult, but instead said "My name, my liege, is no longer Kimvut.  Our forefathers have given our names to our goddess in devotion, so that they will be protected in the halls of glory when we depart this world.  We take new names, given to us in honor from our leader.  My uncle gave me a name, and it is a name I prefer for the duration of my time as a savage, my liege.  It is Boot Krak, my lord."  On hearing the name the king giggled girlishly, but said nothing.  Boot continued, "And, my lord this exercise was completely necessary, if for nothing than for me to assess the levels of security you now possess, which I am sorry to say is very poor."  
King Raymone sniggered and said, “Well we will see who learns from whom, Boot.  Yes.  Tomorrow start your business.  Your main task is to discover who is leaving these threats against my life, and second to secure my royal person."  The king looked the man up and down before saying, "Get yourself something that makes you look like some minor functionary of my court, or perhaps a visiting noble. Keep a low profile, yes?  Appearances must be kept, for no one should ever get the impression that I am a weak king, understood?"  The king's eye twitched and his voice began to rise, "I am safest in my own kingdom, and let none ever think to challenge me!  The one who does will bleed before me, regardless of name, rank or birth!" the king shouted, pulling a jeweled sword from his waistband and holding it high.  Boot noticed a slight tremble from the uncommon exertion of holding a weapon from the king's arm and was suddenly aware of the thought that perhaps the king was mad.  The king stood in his ridiculous pose for a moment, out of breath and red faced.  Then, he put his sword away, shook his hair out as if it had been blown wild, and looked at the floor behind Boot distastefully.  "And for the god's sake don't get any more mud on my floors.  And take a bath.  You reek of the road.  Attend me tomorrow, savage."  The king turned and left, leaving Boot alone in the great hall, with no idea as to his quarters, or where to gain the livery he was ordered to wear.
Boot stood there wondering whether he would be able to find the ones who wanted to assassinate the king and buy out the contract.  The aide moaned on the floor before rolling over enough to vomit all over Boot's feet.  "Focking Mosh," he said to himself while shaking of the vomit, "No wonder you sent me to this hell hole.  You wouldn't have lasted a minute before you killed him!"

















Four:

I saw the lads, when they were boys, the two younger watching the elder with such joy, such love.  They younger two wore simple leather jerkins, dyed blue for the smaller, dyed red for the larger, as they practiced with wooden swords vigorously.  The elder practiced his swordplay as if in dance, delivering each maneuver with more grace than would have been apparent.  His bright blue eyes held a smile that continually bade the younger boys to join in the game, and for a while, they would.  But the red and the blue would begin to fight with each other, as it always seemed they did, leaving the elder to dance his deadly dance in what seemed an eternal grace.  I grieved on hearing of that young man's demise, as did all the savages.  The boy in blue took it hard, closing off his joyous laugh for months on end before emerging from his grief as the man he is today.  The boy in red...I don't know if he ever recovered.

Merchantess Selma Broadhand


The first tower of Yurghol was lost when the settlers built it on what they thought was solid rock.  They could not have known that the land they lived on was nothing more than a floating piece of slate covered with a few feet of sod on an enormous fen, floating precariously on the surface.  The citizens of Yurghol thought that their island home was a fantastic discovery, accessible only by boat, with great lines of sight along the mostly flat bogs around the island.  For over a hundred years the city prospered, hoarding the gold, iron and copper that they mined from the rocky areas around the massive swamp territory.  
But all that was fated to end, for a large earthquake shook the entire southern continent, causing the precariously balanced city to capsize.  The massive slate island shook on the water, and when the fen rose in a great wave and upended the floating rock, it sunk into the fen, rotating as it went.  The city of Yurghol was taken by the swamps with all its riches, and its entire people.  
Well, almost all of them.
Two young men, Keven and Silven Fenwide, twins from the city, were out hunting for dinner in the swamp when the earthquake hit.  Fortune smiled on the young men and they survived the quake by cowering on top of a large boulder that they clamored up onto at the beginning of the quake.  After everything settled they went to the location of their former home, only to find that it was gone completely.  There was, however, quite a bit of gold, silver and other valuables floating in the muck, and after several days braving it in the wild the young men left the territory as rich men.  They bought what they needed and went back to Yurghol, scouting until they found a new place for their home.  The second tower of Yurghol was built on a nice flat section of land in the southern part of the territory.  After almost three hundred years the city had grown to one of some fame and fortune, trading in metals and the rare murkroot plants and murkskimmer pelts.  The metals gave the city a steady income, but the real claim to fame was the Murkroots and murkskimmers.  The root could be used in various applications, including a balm that healed almost any skin wound, the murkskimmer pelt was not only luxurious and warm, but the fur was waterproof, making it extremely practical as well.  The only problems were that the Murkroots were notoriously hard to find or grow (and thus sold at an amazing twelve gold pieces a plant) and the murkskimmers were very rare and hard to find.  The amphibious mammals did not need to surface regularly, and den mothers, when found, used their large teeth and claws to good advantage, making many hunters lose fingers, toes and sometimes even hands.  It wasn't uncommon in the city to be able to see several people that were scarred or otherwise injured and handicapped in the course of a day.  
But at the same time, this same collection of scarred veterans of "battle" made for another uncommon condition in the city: the lack of a standing army.  Yurghol's remote location, coupled with being the only city in the territory and nearly impassable landscape made it easily defended.  These scarred veterans (some former mercenaries or social outcasts from richer areas) were part of the Indomitable Militia; the only of it's kind in the nation.  They trained three days of every week, and drew a minor stipend from the city, while never garrisoning off of it.  But in times of trouble, such as an attack by a rival (few if any had ever tried), or perhaps the constant threat of trolls and their cousins carokes (a constant trouble, though little threat in itself) the militia was tireless in their defense.  They were perhaps one of the proudest defense forces in the nation, and wore their city's crest proudly, even when not in muster.  It was often said that the standard of Yurghol, a black ram on a field of brown, would demand as much fear and respect as any mercenary group, should they ever march.

It was this standard that the three companions saw as they rounded a bend in the road to find themselves in a major clearing as the swamp forest fell behind them immediately.  The air around this clearing, while not any fresher, finally cleared of the constant haze and the tower rose up from the land in front of them, instilling a feeling of awe in the travelers.  While not the largest city by far in the kingdom, it seemed a metropolis as it rose from the swamp, the sounds of civilization reaching out to the ears of the travelers as they road.  The road to the city was lined with flagpoles flying the standard of Yurghol or of the Kingdom of Uthradt itself.  Nippol looked at the walls to see what he could expect upon arriving, but it was apparent from the amount of motion there that they had already been seen galloping up the road.  A great horn sounded over the still country welcoming the new visitors, and all three companions saw the gates begin to swing wide.  
But as the apparent welcome unfolded Aron saw the truth of the matter.  A group of lancers sat ready to sally from the gates, and guards on the high towers readied ballistae while archers knocked arrows to longbows.  Aron tapped Nippol on the shoulder and motioned to the positions of the militia as the riders approached.  Nippol nodded but said nothing in response.  Already the large man readied himself for an unexpected fight, and a slight glance over at Dancis showed that the former cleric had also sensed something amiss.  
The riders slowed their pace to a walk so that they could gauge the intent of militia that seemed ready to attack.  Nippol gave a couple of short whistles and both Aron and Dancis put a hand on their weapons.  Nippol did not move, but stared straight ahead to the gates.  Something about all of this didn't seem right, felt off in the way the militia moved and prepared.  His eyes darted up to the walls again, and noticed something odd about every other archer.  "They watch as we approach, but also for something else, eh lads?" he whispered.  Aron said nothing in reply, but looked around once more, searching for some unseen threat.  Dancis did nothing but use his free hand to stroke the neck of his ram as he rode with his knees.  The ram seemed ready to bolt and bleated as if in fear.  
Almost at the exact moment a rider in dark armor appeared at the front of the lancers, and the whole lot of them rode out with lances readied.  The companions stopped their slow advance, instead waiting for the riders to meet them on the road.  The lead rider placed a horn to his lips and blew a powerful blast that echoed through the swamp.  The riders shouted in unison and went from a trot to full gallop as they closed the gap between the riders and themselves.  To a man they looked battle hardened and angry along with an expression some that seemed resigned to what fate dealt.  Nippol, confused and unsure of what to do, swung of his mount and readied his hammer.  Aron and Dancis followed suit, the former drawing his blade and palming a knife, the latter saying a prayer as he readied his staff.
The gap closed from hundreds of yards to yards, the thundering hooves ripping into the road as they charged.  The riders yelled as they charged, as if hoping to scream their new opponents into submission.  Determined not to throw the first blow in this fight Nippol roared his challenge, as did his companions.  As the seconds flew by the shouts continued as opponents locked view.  Nippol focused on the lead rider, the only man among them with a full helmet, complete with a plume of red horsehair atop it, intending that his first victim would be he that led such a folly attack. He gritted his teeth and readied his hammer for a swing and began to move forward to the riders
And was instead knocked to the earth from behind as the smell of carrion overwhelmed him.  Nippol rolled onto his back, shaking his assailant from him as he did, only to witness his companions go to the earth in the same fashion by things his mind would not accept as real.
Its head and body bore resemblance to a large mountain cat, but had putrid black and green coloring on leathery skin that seemed stretched over tight on an almost emaciated form.  It lacked eyes and had overlong fangs that protruded from both the upper and lower jaw.  The creature that Nippol had tossed from his back lay on the grown, yipping in an almost human sounding cry.  It forced itself up on eight spider-like legs that ended in three appendage feet, like a bird or small lizard, using its long, thick tail to help it gain footing.   Then it screamed at him and ran at him with fangs bared.  The creature leapt at him, and before he could react it was upon him once more, locking his arms to his side with its legs as it slammed him to the earth.  The smell of decaying flesh over took his senses as the creature hissed in his face, its maw almost atop his own mouth.  
And suddenly the overwhelming pressure of the beast was gone as the sound of the charging militia once again filled his ears.  In the place of the oppressive stench of the beast was a warmness running down his neck as blood from the beast splattered the massive man.  Nippol quickly gained his feet to see what had happened and felt the fool as he realized what had happened.  The lancers had struck the beasts from atop their mounts, along with several others that had swarmed to finish off the arriving mercenaries.  Somehow the militia had known what was about to befall the riders and did not waste time warning them.  As they came upon the tree line the riders stopped giving chase and instead wheeled about, heading back towards the mercenaries.  Behind them the ground erupted with hundreds of the horrific beasts.  Not stopping to even consider fighting Nippol scooped an unconscious Aron from the ground as he leapt back onto his mount.  Dancis did the same, only retrieving his friend's scimitar as he mounted up.  Both mercenaries kicked their mounts and raced to the gates of Yurghol, their saviors in full flight behind them.  As they neared the gates began to shut in front of them.  From behind Nippol the mournful sound of the horn sounded once more, and the air was filled with arrows and ballistae bolts.  Screams of anguish that sounded too human for Nippol's liking filled the air as the defenders rushed for the safety of the walls.  Another blast of the horn, and another volley blotted out the sky from above, but none among the riders turned to see, for they were at the gates.
The riders, all of them, made it through the gates that slammed shut behind them.  The panting and whinnying of horses seemed to be the most common sound as the militia and the mercenaries eyed each other after the short battle.  The gate groaned as a host of horrors slammed into their thick planks.  A chorus of shrieks sounded beyond the wall, each seeming to be full of pain and suffering.  Worse still, the sound was horrific because they sounded like women and children.  Finally, after a brief eternity, the shrieks ended and peace was once again found.  
"Unsettling, aren't they boys," Nippol heard from the leader of the lancers.  Nippol turned to the speaker, astonished at what he had just heard.  The leader of the lancers removed his helmet, only to reveal flowing red hair and stunning green eyes set in a face of pure beauty.  She laughed as she saw the stunned look on both the savage and the dwarf's face.  "Good day to you men," she said as they gathered there wits.  "My name is Captain Farynn Seerstone of the Indomitable Militia," she said through gasping breaths and a smile.  "Welcome to Yurghol."