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((Apologies for the huge delay. This is the last installment of the story))
Masnark lifted his eyes and looked at the children at the table, doing their best not to fidget. "I must have fallen asleep. These sad stories tend to deflate me. I will try to finish my story now."
It was a dark hour. Many of us were down. The Midgardians who had a tenth of the numbers than us and the Brits had were actually winning. As more Hibernians fell, I could hear Lunahopper shout to our troops to fall back. There was much confusion with the bard Dolour egging us on and the little keen pushing us back. At the end, Shelter noticed our sad state and started helping the keen to push us back. As we retreated to the safety of the woods behind Gallarhorn, we were astonished and crest-fallen about what this too-close alliance with the Albionites has caused. Several were murmuring their annoyance. The Droods and Wardens were busy going around, patching broken arms, laying hands on wounded fighters and trying to do all that as fast as possible. At the side, Shelter, Lunahopper and Doulor were locked in a feverish argument or rather, Dolour and Shelter were, Lunahopper was standing near them, not saying a word.. We could hear not a thing, but we were pretty sure we knew what it was about. Nobody dared come between them. At the end, the Bard raised his hands in exasperation and stalked to the side. Shelter came, limping to stand before us and waited for the murmurs to hush up. "This is our time, Hibernians. This farce of fighting alongside the Albs will not reoccur. We will come up the hill again, but this time, come back down with the Cauldron of Dagda. In one hour we move again. Do not stray to far from this camp." As he finished talking, Zlara approached him and placed her large hands on his neck. His back arched a little, and his leg gave way, Zlara caught him before he fell and held him up, armor and all for a few seconds until he gained back control over his leg. As she let go, he stood there, trying to put weight on his now-healed leg. Seeing that it was as good as new, he smiled at the bolg and bowed his head slightly. Zlara gave him back a nod and went to the next wounded warrior without a word.
I was sitting on a frozen log, maintaining a ball of flame in my hand to give us some warmth. Saorise was sitting near me, even quieter than usual. I tried goading her to talk to me but to no avail. After a while I gave up, and just rested, trying to gain my strength back. "That was immensely stupid of us, Elf." Saorise said quietly. I looked at her, letting her talk. "I am very proud of all the Hibernians. Even the Celts and Bolgs seem to have been doing well. But to throw it all away with such stupidity... It makes my heart boil. It makes me want to stab somebody." I shuffled and moved away from her, in way of a jest, pretending I was afraid she was going to stab me. She did not laugh. She did not even smile. She just sat there, stone and dagger in hand, slowly sharpening her already deadly dagger.
At long last, the command was given. Our scouts reported that the Brits have withdrawn and are nowhere near the keep. We all got up and started walking towards the keep again. It was amazing how far easier everything was now that we did not have those pesky Albs to stand in our way. The guards fell like flies around us. Rams were built at the first door and three stout wardens started ramming. What little Midgardian defense was risen, we put down quite easily now that there was no interruption. Bodies of Kobolds and Dwarves fell from the wall, victims of our Nightshades and Rangers. As I was standing there with Saorise and Zlara near me, I suddenly heard a shout. From my right, I saw blood spilling from the throat of the bard Trefal, his body falling to the ground, my eyes then caught the outline of a Shadowblade, running away towards the back of the keep. I told my Underhill to run after him while I tried to stun him in his place. My spell hit him in full force, but dissipated, doing nothing at all to him. I started running after him, only the torn throat of Trefal visible in my mind. I could hear Saorise shouting from behind me to stop, but I paid her no heed. I ran, trying to reach that foul Norse. The Shadowblade ran all the way to the back side of the keep. As I turned the corner, I saw him and my underhill locked in combat. As I was drawing power to decimate the fiend, I heard Saorise shout from behind me "Careful, El…" It was entirely too late. My own bloodlust will cost me much. As I turned, I saw no less than three more Shadowblades appearing around me. I was able to use what power I have drawn into myself to blast them all once, but it was hardly enough. They stuck their blades in me once each and stepped back. The poison alone brought me to my knees where I also, for my great shame, lost what food I had in my stomach as well as control over my pet who just fell like a doll whose strings were cut. I fell to the ground, hardly able to breathe, only to see them all, including the one who lured me so effectively to their trap laughing at me, still wounded from my last blast. I was fighting for breath, feeling my end nearing.
I then saw them all stiffen up and from the corner of my eye, saw that Saorise arrived to where my body was lying. My heart sank just as their hopes were brightened when I saw that Saorise came with no support, following me, a foolish Elf, to her death. I could not forgive myself for doing that to her, I remember that. I remember telling myself I shall never leave her side ever again if by some miracle she would be willing to fight alongside me again. Slowly, like the slimy creatures they are, the four Shadowblades started circling the little keen. Two Kobolds and two Norsemen. Around her they circled, trying to instill fear in her heart. But she was just standing there, looking at them as they circled her, her dagger in her right hand and a shield on her left arm. She was standing there, somehow looking down her nose at all of them. Somehow looking more confident than the four of them. One of the Kobolds, in a childish act, spat at her. The spit hit her on the left side of her neck. She turned her face towards him and for a second everything froze. But only for a second. From my pathetic positon on the floor, unable to do anything, I saw Soarise, as fast as a swooping eagle ram herself into the Kobold’s Abdomen. Instead of a shout, blood came out of his mouth, spilling onto his chin. With two more stabs of her dagger, aimed squarly at his throat, the Shadowblade died where he stood, learning that indeed, hell hath no fury like a keen scorned. Before his body even hit the ground, she turned towards the remaining three and lunged towards one of the lightly wounded Norse. Expecting the attack, he evaded her and turned sideways. Using his momentum, he stabbed at the connecting points between her sleeve-armor and her torso armor, tearing at her arm. Seeming not to notice the attack, Saorise used her momentum to crash into another one of the Norse, stunning him and landing on top of his sprawled body. The third Shadowblade, the Kobold lunged at her, his axes moving like the wings of an angry bee, only to be blocked each and every time. The still-standing Norse also started attacking her. Saorise was able to stun him too and started attacking him with her dagger, all the while dancing around him, trying to make sure the Kobold is unable to reach her unprotected back. By this time, the dazed Norseman whom she stunned, came to his senses and started attacking her as well. It was too much for her – they were dancing around her, inflicting more and more damage on her small form. Saorise was sweating from concentration and it seemed that blood covered her from head to toe. Two of the remaining three Shadowblades were mortally wounded too though, their attacks becoming slower and slower. As I was watching Saorise’s life slowly leaving her, from the side of the keep, I could hear footsteps coming towards us at a dead run. They sounded like the running footsteps of a Cave Bear. A very angry Cave Bear. Out of nowhere, at top speed, Zlara appeared, her face contorted in a snarl such as I have never seen before. Running into the fight, she smashed one of the Norsemen’s face with her head, pushing his nose deep into his skull, her pig-tails flailing around. Not losing a moment, she bent down to Saorise, and seemed to slap her back. As she touched her, Saorise’s drooping eyelids shot open. Ignoring the pain of the heal, Saorise immediately blocked an axe that was aimed at Zlara’s bent back.
At the end, five Shadowblades were lying to the feet of Soarise and Zlara, a fifth one made a grave miscalculation and joined the fight, only to die without landing one blow on either the Champion or the Drood. As Zlara kneeled near me, picking up my body, I tried to tell her and Saorise how magnificent I thought they both were. How honored I am to be considered their friend but all that came out was this intelligible string of nonsense and embarrassing amounts of saliva.
As we neared the front of the keep, we heard the Horn sound. We have gotten through to the Relic. After all these years, the Cauldron of Dagda was once again in Hibernian hands. All I could do was try mastering what control I had left over my facial features to smile. Zlara placed me with my back on the wall, starting to chant those chants that would fix me up for the thousandth time. That is how I will always remember that heroic Relic Battle. Us getting our relic back and me sitting with my back to the wall, having my chin wiped by a huge bolg while she was singing at me, making the poison go away.
The children looked at Masnark as he was finishing his story, trying to stifle their giggles.
And that was that basically. After the group responsible for placing the relic back at Dagda did their job, we took the remaining two relics, giving one to the Albs as a token of our appreciation. The Midgardian offered very little in way of defense. I cannot say I blame them. They were sieged for months on end. These fights can take their toll. Taking the Strength Relics was merely a formality. As we broke down the second door, the keep lord and all of his guards simply surrendered, giving us the key to the third door. We took the remaining relics and placed them in Lamfhota.
It was a long and bloody war, but we won that part of it. We knew the time will come when we are complacent and fat from spoils of war and so somebody will come and take those relics from us. But we did not care. All of us were part of something so much bigger than our own selves, that it made us all realize just how much Hibernia and it’s people meant to us. It made us realize what being Hibernian really means.
Ever since those fights, us Hibernians have been calling Nottmoore Faste "The Key to Midgard’s Heart" because as long as we were able to hold onto it, throughout history, we were able to crush the Midgardian Horde.
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I think there's a good chance we would have given up before the Mids if not for the Albs, but it was more of a Morale thing than a pure tactical thing.