Asherons Call: May Rollout Article is Up!

Rollout Article

The messenger scrabbled over rock and scrub, breathing hard. Each handhold and foothold was accompanied by a cascade of pebbles, clattering down the slope beneath. He cursed at all the noise he was making. He knew he was being pursued, and while his dark clothing would help conceal him in the light of a moonless night, all the noise meant that he may as well be calling out, "Here! Here I am!" to his pursuers.

He had been running since the morning, when dawn's first light revealed the spire over the Caul. He had run to his field commander, who had then dispatched him to the mainland to deliver a message to the chapterhouse. From the chapterhouse, with only a brief rest to recover his strength, he had been sent through a portal into this wilderness, to deliver more messages. It seemed that the entire Ordina had mobilized all across Dereth. He knew he was one of many messengers crisscrossing the known world, scurrying from the Caul to the Direlands to the frigid wastes of the Halaetan Islands. He counted his blessings - his task was to deliver messages and supplies to Ordina mages and scholars in isolated outposts. At least he'd not been the one sent to trade messages with those disturbing cultists, the ones who worshipped death and darkness with madness in their eyes. He also knew that the Ordina was not the only organization thrown into a flurry of activity. Even the unaligned were re-ordering their houses, checking loyalties, mustering for the battles to come&

Grimacing, he pulled himself onto a relatively flat outcropping of rock on the face of the slope. He allowed himself a brief rest, scanning the terrain below his perch to see if he could spot any sign of pursuit. He had been blessed with a hunter's sharp eyes, and the Ordina had helped him further develop his skills. He noted a stir in the low trees, a few hundred yards from the bottom of the slope. As he suspected, his pursuers were gaining on him as he struggled up the ridge. He only hoped that his decision to sacrifice stealth for speed would pay off once he topped the crest.

He drew from his pack a bottle of honey-colored potion. He flicked the cap off with his thumb and gulped the bottle down, feeling the tingle in his arms and legs as the potion burned away his fatigue. He set the bottle down on the ledge and re-started his ascent. The crest of the ridge was not too far above him now. He'd get back on even ground and then vanish into the trees before whoever was chasing him could see where he went.

He was just a few handholds away from the top when he heard a whoosh and moist, meaty thunk just underneath him. Pain followed immediately after the sound - a hot explosion of agony in his left leg. He spared a glance down over his shoulder, and saw an arrow sticking out from the back of his thigh. He almost cried out in fear and rage. Gritting his teeth, he pulled himself up the last few handholds, over the crest of the ridge and into the cover of some scrubby bushes. Trying to distance himself from the pain, he picked up a loose twig from the brush surrounding him. He bit down on the twig, then snapped the arrow shaft, leaving most of it still buried in his thigh. He bit through the twig and almost passed out from the pain, but somehow managed to roll to a crouching position.

The wound changed his thinking. How could he hope to evade this pursuit with a wounded leg, trailing blood at each step? More than that, he was tired of running. He'd joined the Ordina to fight, not to run. He decided to find a suitable spot, and prepare an ambush. He would become the hunter again, rather than the prey.

He moved towards the trees to the west with a lopsided loping stride, ignoring the ripping pain in each stride. He took cover in a dense copse of evergreens, sheltered on the north and west by large boulders. To the east, in the direction his pursuers would come from, were long stretches of mostly open ground. He'd have some natural cover and a clear shot at his enemies from here, including a view of the ridge crest he'd just come over.

He sat as comfortably as he could, strung his bow and scanned the horizon, ready to give back some of what he'd gotten. He was a good archer and an accomplished hunter, and it made him feel stronger just to have the weapon in his hand. "Come out, dogs, I have a surprise for you," he whispered.

There was a twitch in the bushes that he'd just come out of, a couple of hundred yards to the east. In a heartbeat, he loosed an arrow. Another movement, to the southeast. He loosed another arrow. There was a third movement, between the first two. He shot again, and he started to wonder just how many people were after him. He saw no evidence that he'd hit anything with his shots, and frustration and fear threatened to overtake him again.

He drew another arrow from his quiver, nocked it, and waited. "Come on come on come on," he muttered impatiently.

There was a crash behind him. Before he could spin to confront the threat, something heavy landed on his back, pinning him down, and a strong arm wrapped around his neck from the left side. He felt hot breath on the back of his head. He heard someone whisper, "An impatient scout is a dead scout." From the darkness to his right, a purple blade flashed brightly, then darted towards him with the speed of a striking snake.