Last Meal at Homebound: Part II

Tender as the moment was it lasted only a second as Magda, without a word, began to search the mess of her establishment for any weapons brought in with the wounded. Immediately finding a small crossbow and a short sword she barked an order to the boy to do the same. Magda made her way back to the familiar area behind the bar and laid the weapons alongside the iron skillet, figuring this place, the place she'd spent near all of the last thirty years as good a place to make her last stand as any. She'd fought and kicked the rear off of many a drunken barbarian from this very spot, tossed them out with her own bare hands with nary a skillet in sight to give her nae help. She was a'feared of no orc. That was for the certain.

The boy joined her behind the bar with a quiver of bolts and a dagger. He shook his head slowly as if to say "There's no more" when she looked at him hopefully. Looking away from the boy she spoke, "Wake those ye can. Tell them they must stand, or die like dogs at the end of an orc-spear." She looked back to him, locked his gaze. "Be brave. Honor yer father and yer clan. I'll cover ye as best I can from here with a crossbow if they make it in 'afore ye return to m'side. Hurry now, there isn't much time." He scurried away as ordered.

The drums were loud, growing impossibly louder as each second passed. She could hear breaking glass through the hastily fortified doors and blocked windows, could smell smoke from the fires they had started all over the village. Imagined in her mind orcs breaking down the door to her storage shed. Hoped against hope that maybe, this time, there would be a snake-man or two in there waiting for them.

She managed a smile at that last thought and suddenly wondered about her new elvish friends, Cor’Nal and Ademar. Where had they been these last days? Had they met their end as many adventurers do? Magda knew that they were wary of the coming bout with Schudlichton, as the druid himself made his disdain for war clear, but they would not abandon the town, would they? Not that their presence here would make much difference in the face of current odds, though they did have a knack for…

The shattering of one of her western windows brought Magda out of her thoughts. She looked into the parlour as the boy ducked instinctively. She saw that he had managed to get three bloody warriors to their feet. They were pale and ghostly, sweaty with unbroken fever and likely delirious. They were, in a word: Worthless.

Magda beckoned the boy back to her and while he made his way around she reached under her bar table and fumbled for a scrap of parchment, a feather pen and an inkwell. With shaking hand she scribbled a barely legible two-word note and stuffed it into the pocket of her apron.

“They don’t have any weapons.” The boy said as he returned to Magda’s side, referring to the still wobbly barbarians that he managed through some miracle of Kutenai, to help stand.

“Don’t need them,” she said, patting the pocket of her bloodstained apron where the note lay folded. “They’re not strong enough to cradle their own berries.”

“Aye.” The boy said absently.

“I’ll need ye t’ stay behind the bar with me.” Magda said. “We’ve only two crossbows, and I’ll be firing both of ‘em.”

The boy looked up at her curiously, he was frightened, but he was alert. “How will ye shoot them both?”

“I won’t stupid. I’ll only shoot one at a time, but I’ll need you to reload them after I fire each. Can ye do that?” The drums were so loud she could barely hear her own voice and she began to wonder if the boy could hear her, his nodding head confirmed that he could.

“Good,” she continued. “Now, they’ll likely come through the front door, but if they have much trouble they’ll come through the windows and look for a back door.” As she spoke she reached again under the table and found a small loaf of wheat bread, made with ingredients stored in her storage shed, ingredients brought here from warmer climates by Fengis. She put the bread on a small plate, set it in front of the boy. “If I fall, I don’t want you t’ be brave, ye hear? I want ye t’ flee.” Magda gave him a stern look, tried to make him understand that she was serious. “Don’t stay back fer me, I can take care o’ m’self.” She looked away for a moment before looking back to his sad face. “Likely I’ll be playin’ possum anyways.”

“If it does happen, try the back door first. If it’s blocked…” she hesitated, then forced herself to continue. “Play possum, as I’ll be playin’. Orcs have no interest in the dead. If they think ye are, they’ll leave ye be. When they do go, make yerself scarce, hide as long as necessary, then head south to Whitewall. Look for the two elves. Remember them?”

“Aye.” The boy nodded. Starving he picked at the half-stale loaf with two trembling fingers. It was delicious, the best bread he’d ever tasted.

“When ye get there…” Another crash of broken glass interrupted Magda. Great heat followed an explosion of fire as one of the orcs incendiary devices came through the unbroken west window. Smoke and flame roared at the front of the bar. At first opaque, blinding Magda and her charge from seeing the door in front of them, then the initial flash subsided, allowing them to see through the haze. The residual flame engulfed one of the standing wounded, burning, he screamed as he ran headlong toward the other two nearer the door. They moved away from him slowly, as if he may have been afflicted with some catchable ailment. The burning man then fortuitously tripped over a body on the ground. He writhed, still engulfed in flame, still screaming.

Magda reached for a crossbow, took quick aim and loosed a bolt into the dying barbarian. He gasped a final time as the bolt gave him the warrior’s death he deserved.

Magda handed the crossbow to the boy. His hands shook nearly uncontrollably as he took it from her, not taking his eyes away from the unmoving, yet still burning barbarian.

“Load!” she yelled. The boy snapped back to her, his face was pale, a wet sheen of sweat caused by heat and terror covered it. “Get hold of yerself and load, dammit!”

The boy looked to the quiver, took a bolt from the leather and with help of adrenaline, pulled the drawstring back with unnatural ease. He nocked the bolt in place. Proud, he looked up at Magda, whose gaze was locked to the door. He looked to see what it was she saw and wished he hadn’t as he could see a column of marching, unhindered orcs approaching through the window that flanked the right side of the front door. Suddenly, as he resisted the urge to water his pants he was acutely aware of the smell of burning flesh. He wanted to vomit.

Then he did.