LaBairne hated the forest. Dozens of shadows darted in and about the trees, drawing his attention away constantly. The turn off from the security of the open road and into the forest had been an unexpected one; one he would rather have done without. It seemed everything on this trip was. Still, he had orders to follow the direction of the staff, and from that he would not stray. There was no denying, that at that point in the road, without any cause other than the magic of the staff, the flag suddenly shifted in that direction. He knew. He had tried to make it go otherwise.
They traveled through the trees for several hours. With the Guard being men of the city, used to the towering security of the high Walls of Indifference of Oswegonia, LaBairne knew they would be at a loss to find the road again on their own. They had no choice but to ride on.
It gave him little comfort against the forest, to have his army behind him. Even though they were alert and well trained, they simply lacked the experience against any real challenge. While they did fine enough against the impoverished masses of the city, and whatever weapons these mobs might have occasion to procure, they had no planned tactics against monsters, especially surrounded in the midst of trees. Under the protection of the trees, he knew they were open to ambush. From close range, his archers would be hard pressed to get a shot off before being struck down by the twisted, unseen forces that he could feel were watching him from all sides.
The army, too, was nervous in its new surroundings. The sounds of the forest were many, even above the rustling of the leaves, which sounded thunderously below their feet. Heads jerked around, scanning the shadows, peering around the columns of trees, searching for dangers that weren't even there, clueless about the dangers that were. On occasion, the ringing of a sword being drawn would rip through the silence, quickly echoed by a dozen more nearby. Murmurs of conversation that started were quickly silenced by the barked orders of superiors, who preferred the maddening silence of the rustling leaves.
"This is madness, shear madness," LaBairne decided. "I'm going to give a full report of this folly to the king personally," he noted to himself. That was if they ever saw the King and their fair city again, he thought grimly.
LaBairne found himself missing the old days when he was but a young upshot, when he first joined the Guard. This seemed to happen a lot lately.
It was a time when the Guard was a respected force; when they served to protect the King and the kingdom. The Guard had been a select group, made of men chosen to prove their worth with their honor. The tests and trials for entry were gruelingly difficult. There had been tests of not only great physical strength and endurance, tests of prowess with the sword and unmatched skill with the bow, but there were tests of principles and valor as well. The Guard had been a symbol of honor, of quality, of pride.
At that time, long ago, the Guard would ride through the streets on horseback to patrol even the lower middle class section of Essex. The crowds would respectfully part for their passing and would cheer at the justice when a dangerous criminal was captured. When a Guardsman entered a bar, citizens would gladly offer to buy them a drink.
In all of his years, albeit as few as they had been, LaBairne never knew a prouder day than when he was chosen into the service of the Guard. Visions of his protecting the kingdom from the evils of the uncivilized world flashed through his mind. He gladly polished the red-crescent helm to a brilliant shine, for that helmet stood for honor and pride.
LaBairne graduated the top of his class of new recruits that year, and as such, was granted the esteemed position of troop leader. Even then his troop took to calling him "Captain," though he was still as far away from being the Captain of the Guard as he could get. Still, the name stuck, and with everything else LaBairne got from the King's Guard, he wore the title with honor. Likewise, even though they had been designated as Griffon Troop, LaBairne's men always referred to themselves as "LaBairne's Troop."
LaBairne's Troop was a tightly knit group; all young men, all too eager to prove themselves to their parents and their King. All except for Countryman. The tender age of nineteen had found this lad with a wife and child to be taken care of.
Countryman had met his wife, whom he always referred to as "Dar," and being more full of spirits than sense, quickly found her with child. Being a man of honor, and forced into it by their parents, Dar and Countryman were married. A few months later found Countryman a father, and in need of a job.
Without the time for a proper apprenticeship to learn a craft, Countryman had turned to a life of service in the King's Guard as a way to provide for his new family. Still, despite his needs or maybe because of them, LaBairne never questioned Countryman's loyalty to the Guard.
The young men practiced their drills and took their turns at the routine patrolling of the city, anxiously awaiting their first special assignment. When the opportunity came for a unique scouting mission, LaBairne's Troop was first to volunteer.
Most of the heavy agricultural farming in Oswegonia was done south of the capital city, in the large halfling settlements there. The small family farms in the counties around Oswegonia, tucked away in the rambling hills and ranges, provided just enough food to feed their own small communities. This kept the proud people there self-sufficient from the capital city.
LaBairne had been but a young whelp back then, and all of this was but one grand adventure for the naive youth he had been. He had the impression of such openness and vastness of the world as he stepped through the open gates of the city and rode through the open countryside of the surrounding counties for the first time.
It was the first of spring when LaBairne's Troop was dispatched to the wilderness. Most of the snow from the long winter was just about gone, with only patches found in the sun protected north slopes of hills and under the thick growth of trees.
Several farmers, eager to set their herds of cattle out to pasture, were quick to notice the terrible slaughter of some of their prized bovines. The cleaned bones and unusable guts were mysteriously left in the fields, the meat stripped off the still warm carcasses. The farmers feared that large packs of wolves, hungry from their long wintering, were taking advantage of the easy cattle kills to do their spring feasting.
LaBairne's Troop was sent out to locate the starving wolf packs. Once found, they were to send for additional troops before trying to kill off the dangerous beasts. The King's orders had been clear, "Don't try to be heroes. Wait for backup."
LaBairne noticed, even then, the subtle differences between those who dwelled in the city and those who chose to live in the open countryside. These were clearly a hardier breed of men, willing to work hard for their sustenance, usually for long, harsh days. These people weathered the cruelties of the strong winds that ripped freely across the vast open fields, and withstood the harshness of the horribly long winters with only what goods they managed to store away. They lived those long cold winters in isolation, cut off from supplying towns or cities. These men worked hardest in the summer when the days were longest. They pounded dry, hard fields under the blazing heat of the summer sun. If these people respected the Guard for whatever protection they could offer, LaBairne certainly respected them.
Those first weeks LaBairne spent outside the city hadn't been completely unpleasant ones. In his youthful eagerness to explore new lands and to experience new things, the countryside provided an exciting alternative to the city he had spent his entire life in.
There were entirely different sounds and smells to excite his senses. The air was alive with the emerging life of spring, and it was as if the whole world was awakening from a long, silent slumber. Birds and animals of all kinds chirped and chattered in their harmonious songs to great the coming season. Fields of blooms, representing every color LaBairne could ever imagine, scented the air with intoxicating aromas; like the foreign perfumes sold in the city's Market Square. But this was real -- it was life.
At night, they sat around campfires and told of their families.
Countryman bragged of his wife, Dar, and little girl, Tabby. Their real names were Darlene and Tabitha, but in his pride he never called them that; it was always Dar and Tabby. Tabby was two then, and had learned to talk. Of course she only said the cutest of things.
Countryman was a giant of a man, but his gentle nature shone through whenever he spoke of Dar and Tabby. He had a grin that was as wide as his huge chest.
LaBairne also remembered a balding man named Fritz, who always had a story at hand about one of his hundreds of crazy uncles. He told of a different uncle every night. He never lacked for an amusing tale. Those yarns around the campfire strengthened the spirits and their camaraderie.
Even though LaBairne's Troop had traveled many miles, they had yet to come across anything unusual or menacing. They found that the entire situation intimidated them. They had no way to tell if anything was amiss in this strange world. They traveled from town to town, interviewed the people, and stayed in spare rooms provided by the grateful farmers whenever they could. The patrol was going great, and for LaBairne, that meant uneventfully. That was until they entered Notluffe.
The small village of Notluffe, far northeast of the capital city of Oswegonia, had been the target of the most recent attacks. Despite their long and meandering route through several other villages along the way, this was their intended destination. The frustrated farmers of Notluffe feared for their losses, which had been substantial. These gentle folk weren't so patient waiting for them to arrive. In the weeks it had taken LaBairne's Troop to get there, additional cattle had been lost, costing the farmers dearly. The farmers demanded results quickly, and didn't want to hear of any lengthy investigation.
LaBairne's Troop worked long days then, interviewing and doing follow-up reports on the seemingly random strikes. At night, when the killings had been taking place, they patrolled the endless wilderness. LaBairne knew they could only hope to be in the right place at the right time, and he knew it was only a matter of time before they would be. The eager Troop hoped, with every report of a new strike, that they were moving closer to the marauding thieves.
Finally, late one night, LaBairne's Troop heard the baying. The moon was a clear, silvery sliver in the darkened sky. Millions of sparkling stars shone above, looking over them. The horrible sound ran down LaBairne's spine and raised the hair on the back of his neck. The brave Troop charged toward the sound of the telltale barking and yelping, using it as a guide through the darkness.
LaBairne clenched the saddle tightly as his powerful steed lunged through the forest, sending low branches whipping across his body, stinging his exposed face and hands. Through the cold of the night air and the pain of a hundred lashes from the fine switches, he could hardly hang onto the leather reins.
Two miles later, LaBairne's Troop burst through the edge of a large pasture. The barking and baying had already stopped. They closed in the rest of the way, based only on their newly acquired knowledge of the area. By the time they arrived on the scene of the carnage, the intruders had retreated back into the wilderness. Under the pallor of the moon's dim light, they discovered the abandoned remains of another fresh kill. The blood still drained across the soaked ground.
Without needing to inspect the all too familiar sight further, and the wolves so close at hand, LaBairne decided to lead the patrol into the wilds to pick up the chase. LaBairne knew the farmers wouldn't understand his orders to "wait for backup," and so LaBairne made the decision to not follow orders.
The ten eager soldiers of LaBairne's Troop charged on, trying to keep each other in sight through the thick forest. The men on either side of LaBairne ducked in and out of sight as they flashed between the trees.
LaBairne's vision wavered as another low branch slapped him right across the face. He saw the color of blood flow into his steely-gray eyes. His helmet slid forward, further blinding him. He wasn't prepared, and had little chance of staying in his saddle, when his mount suddenly stopped in its tracks and reared up.
LaBairne was thrown clear, landing in thick brush several feet away. It was the cover of that growth, and that alone, that saved his life that night. From this hiding spot, he witnessed the massacre that was to ensue.
Hideous, dog-like humanoids jumped out from behind every tree, startling all the horses, and snatching up LaBairne's fallen comrades. Some were taken captive, but most were attacked by accurately placed blades or savagely bitten in the throat. Those bitten lost half the meat there to these foul beasts.
Throughout the horrible ordeal, LaBairne sat helpless, watching the slaughter of his men. The thought echoed endlessly in his head over and over, "He had not followed orders."
Some of LaBairne's Troop managed to engage the dog-men in combat, either from atop their nervous mounts, or from a sturdy battle stance. Countryman, his face twisted with pain and concern for his Dar and Tabby, made a valiant effort. Skilled swords and other weapons that had no doubt been scavenged off past defeated foes quickly met his bravery. Countryman's finely crafted Longsword of the Guard was similarly picked up that day. Eventually, even those able to fight were forced into submission, often over-powered by monsters two or three feet taller than them.
LaBairne was paralyzed by the thought; he had not followed orders.
LaBairne watched as Fritz's limp body was carried away to a fate too terrible for him to consider. Even the horses, dead or alive, were taken. One sword-armed dog, standing over seven feet tall, sliced off a large strip of the horse meat and devoured it whole before he hoisted the sliced carcass into the air. It started, and was quickly joined by others, in a throaty howl of wild baying.
Silent tears ran down LaBairne's face. LaBairne's Troop was no more. He had not followed orders.
LaBairne considered himself lucky, if not a coward. The strong stench of blood filled the air and masked his own scent. Horrified by the carnage he witnessed, LaBairne sat perfectly still, too afraid to even breathe. He wasn't sure how long he sat there. He only knew that he couldn't move, couldn't breathe, or else they would come back for him. He knew they would come back and strip the meat from his bones. They would punish him for not following orders.
The early morning light of the next day found LaBairne still huddled in the shrubs, wide eyes darting from tree to tree, waiting for the shadows to move. He studied each tree in detail. As he scanned the empty forest, he compared the outline of every trunk to that he had memorized. He knew that the trunks would change, that they were waiting for him to move, and that they would jump out and attack him. So LaBairne sat there, huddled against the paranoia, hiding in the empty forest.
Later, the creatures would be identified as gnolls, but putting this label on the horror did little to compensate for the nightmares these memories brought him in the months and occasionally years to follow. He vowed to never leave the city again, and until this mission, he had abided by that oath. Things would be different this time, he promised himself. This time, he would follow orders.
LaBairne and his army followed the magically directed banner for several more days, through the thick wilds of the forest, and the increasingly steep terrain of the emerging mountainside.
In the quiet solitude of the forest, LaBairne found himself thinking of his years in the King's service more and more.
After that initial gruesome mission into the wilderness, he had been treated as a hero. He was soon promoted, and had since worked his way up to the top of the ranks. Maybe it was just his increasing awareness of how the Guard was run, but it seemed much more than a loss of innocence he saw around him.
King Lonnequist had seceded his father, some five years ago. With the new king came many new ideas, and many changes, as there often were at these times. But this time, it was different. LaBairne saw these changes effect him and the Guard.
The new king was concerned with his long list of new taxes. While Oswegonia had always been a prosperous city for both the king and its people, this didn't seem t
o be enough for the greedy Lonnequist. He began taxing everything he could think of. As the people found these new taxes endangering their comfortable lifestyles, the King's Guard were called into action "to protect the King."
The Guard took on the new role of tax collector, and as this happened, it was clear that more men were needed for all the extra duties. Now the Guard had to protect the city from both outside the high walls, and from within. As laws were decreed by the King, and penalties for not paying the taxes increased, the need for honorable and noble Guards decreased. Gone were the proud traditional tests of honor. It became clear to LaBairne that King Lonnequist resolved to rule with an iron fist.
But LaBairne was a career man. The King's Guard was the only thing he knew. So, even though he saw the changes coming down all around him, he stayed the course and adapted to the new philosophies. It was easier than changing careers at his age, or so he convinced himself.
He looked to Dougherty, his steadfast, right-hand man. Dougherty was one of the new recruits. Strong and burly, he was anything but humble in his opinions. He had no qualms with speaking his mind, and figured that everyone else had a right to hear it. He was a bold, brash man, and he fit in well with the new King's Guard. He was everything LaBairne was not. This thought didn't settle well with LaBairne.
It was on Yeenogday, the first of the Dark Days that marked the beginning of the weekend, that LaBairne found himself riding up to an unremarkable cavern opening. The obedient flag pointed into its open mouth. With a bark of command, a half dozen men scurried into the darkness, lighting torches to guide them as they entered. They were gone an uncomfortably long time before returning with their report. The cave was a deep one, with no end in sight. A complex network of branching tunnels, they seemed to go on forever; and they did.
"This could be a problem," LaBairne informed Dougherty who rode up next to where he had stopped. "There's no way of telling how deep this thing is. If my hunch is right, though, it's going to be quite a while before we see the light of day again," he confided grimly as they stared into the black hole in the side of the mountain.
"We've been living off the game we catch around our nightly camp sites," the young commander observed. "Who knows what we'll find in there," he replied sniffing the air distastefully as if his large nose detected the stench of death. "Chances are, it won't be edible."
"Looks like we're going to have to carry enough supplies in to last us, then," LaBairne sighed uneasily, studying the surrounding inclined area. "We'll set up camp there," pointing to a more level place, "and hunt this area until we can gather enough supplies."
"We'll need water, too," Dougherty added. "There was a stream not too far back. Once we get set up, we can send a patrol back to scout out that creek. We can make up skins enough to hold water for the trip."
"Make it so," LaBairne ordered in his low, baritone voice. He removed his gold-crescent helm and led the way down to the level clearing. Dougherty, scurrying down the line behind him barking orders, sent a smile across LaBairne's worried face. He liked commanding an army, he decided. After all these years, his hair now graying, he had finally gained the position he had longed for. It felt good to know he had complete control over every situation. He had trained the troops himself, often overseeing many of the drills personally, and he took great pride in the long line of red-crescent helms behind him.
The open clearing quickly filled with the make- shift tents of the King's Guard. Patrols of various sizes set out in every direction to scout out the area before nightfall. Some scouted out the ridge that loomed over them, some seeing what laid down the steep mountainside below them. Still other groups, small patrols of ten men each, made their way back the way they had come, toward the members of Wefpub.
Chapter 16
Face of the Enemy