Battle for Realbridge

Chapter Thirteen of Under the Goblin Trees

Campaign adaptation by Thomas Kelly

Fireseek 27 of the common reckoning 575. I rose early, reluctant to leave the relative warmth of cloak and fur. The morning had a cold bite, and my breath steamed in the air. Despite the chill, I rose refreshed by the night. Pleasant dreams, no doubt inspired by the sacred stones, had washed away the previous day’s traumas. I communed with the divine as the dawning light broke into a magnificent sunrise over Gran March. Taking full advantage of the sacred stone upon which I stood, I beseeched my Lady of Changing Seasons and all the true gods of right and good that they might grant us success in our quest. Nor did I neglect strange Ehlonna of the forest who had summoned us hither and into the sanctuary of her favored folk.

We made a cold and numb-fingered breakfast atop Table Rock, loaded the horses, and began the descent down the western slopes back into the forest. Ivan’s charger, a native to the woodlands, carried him at the head of our troop. Sir Belvenore’s proud cavalry horse came next, followed by Sir Merciful’s which now bore young Cirilli in the unfortunate knight’s stead. My sturdy pony trotted after these, with William tethered to the horn of its saddle, plodding alongside us. Myron’s unruly mare snorted and bucked behind us, and last of all came Bruin’s stout warhorse under its heavy burden. William ran alongside as long as he could, but when his little legs tired, he consented to riding with Ivan. Now Myron rode up close beside them and took advantage of the opportunity to learn the goblin tongue. He passed the miles inquiring about the goblin word for this and for that. William happily obliged and proved to be a most capable tutor.

Realstream

Our descent to the Realstream took us on a steep plunge back under the forest canopy. We again found ourselves cloaked beneath the shadows, plodding along a well-trodden but narrow twisting pathway.All around us, the trunks stood like a sprawling colonnade, each pillar separated from the next only by the darkness of the Dim.

By midday on the second from Table Rock, Ivan’s path brought us up along the steep gorge of the Realstream. It is said Realstream draws its headwaters from the snowmelt and ample springs off the Barrier Peaks, north of Bissel. The river flows south through the territories of the March, gathering the waters of many tributaries as it goes, and then passes through the Dim, running deep and swift, emerging from the trees at Hochoch before crossing into Geoff and emptying itself into the into mighty Javan. Every year, brave lumbermen in the forest, such as our trusty guide, Ivan O’Micks, float logs down the stream to market in Hochoch.

Ivan explained, “Loggers pitch lumber camps along this bank, and we send our timbers downstream when the water is high and fast with the spring rains. But a woodsman will not happily cross the river, for the other side is fey and wild.”

“Fey and wild!” Sir Belvenore exclaimed incredulously, “Do you then call these woods east of the water tame and civilized? Has not this whole forest has been fey and wild since we came beneath its cursed branches?”

Ivan argued, “Woods east of the water are indeed tame. Our roads are patrolled by woodsmen. Rangers walk the paths. The March forts are guarded by knights of your own order, as you well know. Rare and infrequently does a traveler encounter goblin, orc, ogre, or giant east of Realstream. Not so the west bank. If not for rangers and olvenfolk who guard the bridges and watch the fords, we might be quickly overrun.”

Upper Realbridge

With these words still fresh in our ears, our path brought us nigh the Upper Realbridge. The descent into the ravine from Tablerock joined a broader way (not quite a road) that parallels the river. Here and there we saw piles of timber already stacked and prepared for the spring floods. Near day’s end, the darkness under the trees gave way to open sky over a great clearing where the road turned abruptly and dipped toward the running water. The rush of the open water filled our ears. We could smell smoke and scent of cooking meat. A thin haze rose from a fire rose from across the river. Our road descended a steep bank to meet an impressive and sturdy bridge crafted of whole trunks of trees skillfully fitted together and interlocking like the logs of a cabin. It looked to me as if a giant had fitted them together. The height was great, and it’s span some half a league. Behold! On the far side of the bridge, smoke rose up from a large bonfire tended by what, at a distance, looked to be an enormous goblinish man in the company of three other armed fellows squatting in the snow. Together they roasted half a horse, still in tack and harness, upon an enormous spit. 

“This bodes ill,” Ivan murmured. We drew our steeds up to keep a safe distance before our descent.

William explained, “Those be the lord baron’s men! They will not let us pass without the password.”

“And what is that password? Speak it quickly!” Myron demanded. William pled ignorance. One of the men-at-arms sauntered out to middle of the snow-covered bridge to challenge us. He was no man but, rather, an uncouth hobgoblin. He called out to us, speaking in the goblin tongue. William translated, “He says, ‘Bring those horses and we’ll cook them too.’”

A second, wielding a spiked ball on a chain joined the first. This one looked the captain, and he was all business. He demanded in the common tongue, “Password!”

The third hobgoblin, hanging back, fitted an arrow to the string of a bow and fixed his sight upon us; the ogre stood up, wiped its mouth, and hefted a great club.

Attempting to employ diplomacy and deceit, I shouted over the din of the running water, “We come from the court of the Baron Wulurich, and he has summoned us to his holdings. This lad, a servant of the lord baron’s hall, guides us. Be sure, the Baron will punish any who molest us or impede our progress, but he will reward you for your cooperation.”

William hopped down from his perch on Ivan’s horse and, without waiting to be asked, stepped into the role of interpreter. He translated my words into the goblin language. The captain offered some equally barbarous sounding reply. William shook his head emphatically, blanched, and stepped back, “He says he will spill our blood in the river and cook our horses, right after he disembowels me with his bare hands.”

Myron offered a reply, instructing William to translate, “Tell them that if they do not let us pass, we will toss their corpses in the water like logs.”

Battle for Realbridge

As William conveyed the message, Myron began his arcane spell-casting. He formed a stunningly vivid illusion of a great and fearsome bird of prey which is known as a Roc, such as the type of which children are told in tales from Baklunish lands. Before the hobgoblins could even reply, this enormous bird came swooping silently down upon them.

“Have no fear of the bird. It has no substance but light and color, an illusion of my craft,” Myron boasted to us proudly as the bird wheeled about in the air, swooped gracefully back and began a second pass at the guardians of the Upper Realbridge. William did not grasp the meaning behind Myron’s words. He shrieked and pulled at his bonds most frantically in terrible certainty that the Giant Roc’s talons would snatch him up just as a mouse might be snatched up in the talons of an eagle or owl.

Likewise on the bridge, scrambling away from the reach of those terrifying talons, one of the hobgoblins leapt over the side and into the churning Realstream under which he disappeared. The captain, however, stood his ground, shouting orders at the others in the goblin tongue. His urgent commands seemed to go unheeded. The third hobgoblin and the ogre companion retreated from the illusory bird, ducking for the cover of the trees as the Roc swept down upon them. Only the captain remained to hold the bridge, not at all discomfited by the illusion. When he looked back to our party on the opposite bank, however, he saw Sir Belvenore, Bruin, and Ivan upon their steeds charging down the slope toward the bridge, and he deemed our three warriors no illusion. He turned his back to flee, shouting all the while.

Myron, Cirilli, and I remained on atop the embankment, watching the drama on the bridge playout below us. From our vantage, it looked as if it should be an easy thing for our formidable warriors to take the Realbridge from one fleeing hobgoblin.

“All too easy,” remarked Myron, speaking out my own thoughts.

As if to contradict to his words, an enormous gangly troll clambered out from beneath the shelter of the bridge’s beams where they met the opposite bank. He swung himself up onto the decking and squatted there like a losel to face the charging warriors. Troll peeled back his lips and let out an eager scream.

Myron directed his magical roc to dive upon the troll, but the fearless beast merely swatted at the bird; long clawed fingers passed through the illusion. As our warriors bore down upon the monster, it stepped aside with unexpected agility, ducking away from Belvenore’s sword and Bruin’s spear. Bruin’s sturdy steed bore him past the beast, but the troll spun about and laid hold of the horse’s flanks. It raked flesh and muscle from the bones and bit deeply into the haunches. Red blood splattered all across the white snow-cover. The horse stumbled and collapsed, the troll rolled with it to deck of the bridge, and Bruin felt himself pitched over the side of the bridge and onto the ice-covered bank below. For the next moments, all became chaos and mayhem—blood, shouts, and screams. Spells flashed from Myron’s hands, and Ivan, who somehow kept his rearing steed beneath him, chopped at the troll with his woodsman’s axe.

The pitiful screaming of Bruin’s dying beast, the roar of the troll, the shouts of the warriors, and the terrified shrieks of little William made such a din in the child air that I wondered if the sound might carry all the miles to the Goblin Trees. All at once the clear tone of a horn, louder than the din of battle, sounded from behind me. Startled, I swung about to see Cirilli winding Nyssa’s horn.

Three long blasts reverberated through all the vale of Realstream. Before the echo of the third blast had faded, two ferocious black bears bounded out from the woods and onto the bridge, as if materializing from thin air. They flanked the troll, roaring and rearing up, snarling, snapping, and clawing. That evening, after the incident was all over, Myron explained to me, “Cirilli’s bears were not bears of flesh and blood, but fey and wild spirits, summoned by the power of the horn. They inhabit only the guise and form of woodland animals.” Be that as it may, the bears seemed far more real and substantial than Myron’s phantasmal roc. Whereas his insubstantial swooping bird had uttered no sound nor inflicted any wound, Cirilli’s bears snarled and barked and raked at the troll’s flesh and bit at his legs. The contest between troll and bears made for a terrific spectacle such as might draw a great cheering crowd to the arenas of Rauxes, but the show lasted only a few gruesome moments. The troll grappled Cirilli’s bears and tore them asunder, one at a time, but not before he suffered his own pound of flesh. Troll staggered about, bloodied and torn. Before his flesh could heal itself in the manner of trollkind, our warriors were upon him again. Ivan’s axe landed stroke after stroke. Belvenore brandished his new elven blade. And climbing up from the bank below where he had been pitched, Bruin came staggering along. He swung his mighty two-handed sword in wide arcs to cut the monster to the ground.

“Get him into the fire before his wounds heal!” Myron wheezed, but his thin nasal voice could not be heard above the sound of the water, the noise of the battle, and the warriors’ own shouts. Even if they had heard his urgent warning, they had no time to act before the troll pulled itself back up from the ground. Rising to one knee, it swatted at the legs of Ivan’s beautiful charger. The horse stumbled, spilling Ivan to the ground.

Before our eyes, the troll’s wounds began to close. Worse yet, the ogre, who had been hanging back until now, found his courage and rushed join, wielding a great hammer-shaped club. Ivan, still unhorsed, lifted himself to his feet just on time to take a terrific blow from behind. The impact sent him headlong, and he lay still where he fell, prone like one dead. Cirilli saw him fall and, leaving the reigns of her steed in my hands, hurried down the bank, heedless into the fray, to see if he be dead or to heal his wounds if she might.

The hammering blows of Belvenore and Bruin toppled the troll a second time. Before it could revive itself and before its flesh closed over its wounds again, Bruin took hold of one clawed foot and dragged the ravaged carcass through the snow to the smoking bonfire over which the ogre’s grisly dinner still roasted on the spit. With a mighty heave, Bruin tossed the troll carcass into the fire. Sooty black smoke rose from the fire as the troll’s oily skin took flame, snapped, popped, and burned.

Seeing that he now stood alone, the ogre lost his appetite for the fight and abandoned his station, fleeing into the woods behind the hobgoblins. Belvenore, who alone of the three remained mounted, set off in pursuit of the ogre and the hobgoblin guardsmen. He ran them all down as they fled before his cavalry-steed’s trampling hooves.

The Fading Light

With that we took full possession of the Upper Realbridge, but at great cost, for Bruin and Ivan had both been sorely wounded, bruised and bloodied. Ivan’s broken body lay unconscious on the bridge, only a few paces from the carcass of Bruin’s unlucky horse. Cirilli cradled the woodsman’s bleeding head in her arms and spoke prayers of healing, but blood flowed from many wounds and also from his ears, nose, and mouth. Moreover, Ivan’s fine charger, a steed for which any regal king might have paid top coin, now staggered about painfully, one leg torn and wet with its own flowing blood. All the snow round the bridge had turned red and black with the blood of horse and troll and ogre and man mixed together.

“Will the woodsman live?” Bruin asked. The heavily armored warrior showed no concern for his own wounds, but I observed that he too staggered and limped. His fine plate armor showed new dents and breaches, and here and there a piece had been dislodged.

Cirilli wept, “If Ehlonna has heard my prayers, he will live, but he was yet weak from the spider’s venom, and these new wounds are a sore hurt.” Why did she first invoke the name of Ehlonna instead of giving preference to Our Lady of Changing Seasons? I tried to shrug it off. Had not Ehlonna summoned me to this adventure? Was she not the divinity of Ivan’s worship? Surely she looks upon her faithful with mercy. Nevertheless, I added my own prayers of healing for both Bruin and Ivan, speaking confidently in the name of my Lady of Changing Seasons and, only afterward, in the name of whatever true gods might look on us with pity in the fading light of the day.

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Artwork: Upper Realbridge, ChatGPT4 + DALL-E