Squib Ep.3 - Herule
(Start at the beginning here.)
There came a shrill, gurgled scream.
Herule drove his spear down through the chest of his quarry, relieving the creature of all the cares of the world. Planting a clawed foot on the corpse, he elevated his position for a better view of the terrain. Tongue licking at the air, he scanned the surrounding swamp in search of movement while casting his head for any untoward sounds.
The smell of blood curled upward, lifting from the gray goblin corpse at his feet to mingle with the filth ridden stench that flowed freely through the air. More were out there, he could sense it, but where and why remained a mystery.
Herule’s hunting party were surely of a similar mind. To his left and right they surged forward in search. Clambering over tree root and log, winding their way around bogs, or just diving straight through, they moved freely as anyone would in their own home. Strong scaled legs, powerful long tails, unencumbered by the need for clothing, huge bipedal lizard creatures carrying primitive weapons.
Herule thrust forward from his perch to draw up the line, keeping in step with his warrior brethren. There was no telling what purpose the gray-skins had in their ancestral land. Whatever it was it would not be good. It never was with the gray-skins. Shifty, angry, scuttling little beasts with fire in their brains and unnatural weapons of war at their fingertips. Long had been the feud between their two tribes, and until one or the other was wiped out that feud would never end.
All that mattered now was the protection of their borders, and violations of such lines were to be met with the most swiftest of judgments. That is what Herule was here for. That was his purpose amongst his tribe.
Fearlessly, Herule and his brothers forged on, though secretly Herule wished to be chief amongst them. The first kill was his by no accident, and now the race to discover the rest of the gray-skins was top priority. There was prestige to be garnered. Greatest warrior, best tracker, strongest most tested body, keenest of senses, these were the currency of Herule and his people.
Here stood an opportunity to prove himself. Undoubtedly his companions would be feeling the same. “It matters not,” Herule thought as he swung around the trunk of a tree on one powerful arm. “Let them feel as they please. Herule shall make those feelings manifest.” He already sensed the edge he’d carved, hanging sharp in the air. It drove the others to contend for the right to boast. Only one spear tip was coated in blood. The others, sharp as they were, served little more than tokens of shame.
Something moved up ahead. Herule scanned the spaces between the old gnarled trees and figured the earth was raised and dry.
He let go a roar, a coarse, scathing sound that tore at the air and rallied his companions to do the same.
Free flowing arrows began to zip by in the opposite direction, and a scattering of gray-skins dislodged from their holds to fall back into the clearing. Herule could taste glory as he leaped through the air to avoid a mire that lay in his path. However glory should taste, the Lizardman had never imagined it to be anything like swamp water. He buckled in the air without warning, flipping at the waste as a coil of vine, or rope, shot up from the water and caught him around the middle. His world tumbled before crashing with a splash in the pool.
Darkness consumed him. Herule thrashed to right himself but only felt more tangled for the effort. More tendrils of unknown design clung to his limbs, making it an effort to move. He pushed forward, clawing at wet mud and throwing muck into the air.
Panic struck him, but not for a fear of his life. ”Wait for Herule!” He thought, casting his mind to his brethren, already engaged in battle, hogging all the glory for themselves. The selfish goats, they would surely bleat of their victories later.
Herule rapped his forarm around a coil and grabbed it with his fist. It felt sturdy in his grasp, anchored to something above the waterline. He hauled on it with his might, dragging himself into the free air with anger fueled desperation.
“Save some for, Herule!” Came a deep rasping voice as a swamp monster emerged from where the lizardman had entered.
The sounds of battle replaced the echo of water in his ears. Herule clambered to the dry earth, tangled in vines, covered head to toe in a thick coating of mud. His spear was lost in the chaos, nevertheless the swamp-lizard stomped forward with his claws bared in search of quarry.
Around him a number of gray-skins turned and brandished weapons but were quickly overcome with fear. They withdrew, yelling something in their filthy tongue that Herule could not understand.
He lept after one with power fueled speed, forcing the goblin to the ground under his weight, and twisting its head at the neck in one deadly motion.
Something sharp and pointy thrust forward and on instinct he shifted out of its way. Launching back, a cruel looking gray-skin gave pursuit, thrusting as he went. Herule caught the shaft in his hand and jerked forward, sending its owner flying past without it.
Three more gray-skins charged to cover their allie, forming a tiny phalanx to threaten any advance. Herule turned the spear in his hand and launched it at the middle of the three, knocking it over with the force.
He took stock of the situation. Gray-skins hung, swung, and crawled over every tree and manageable piece of earth. Despite their superior size and strength, the lizardmen warriors were either severely outnumbered, or already dead. Worse yet, something more sinister, more powerful, moved amongst them.
Herule watched as a wave of Goblins were pushed forth at the sound of an Orcish grunt. His kinsman, standing defiant, caught a number of spears upon his shield, only to be leapt on by gray-skins like giant rats.
The large Orc behind stepped forward, raising a crude heavy mace into the air and bringing it down with a gruesome crunch.
All around the fight for glory descended into a chaos and despair. Herule spun with his tail, slapping down a handful of overconfident gray-skins. He hissed his defiance and called out to his brethren- if any were still able to hear. “Flee for your lives!” He knew there were no boasts from the dead.
The goblins around him seemed to take it for a sign and continued to press their numbers advantage. Herule heard another Orcish bark and looked to see one pointing in his direction. Suddenly the same grasping, clinging sensation he had while in the mire took hold as Goblin after Goblin grabbed loose vines and hauled the warrior into submission.
He fought back, holding his feet and pulling the goblins off theirs. Yet for every line he caused to stumble, another took up the slack in their place.
Taking a vine in his hands he sought to break the bond only to discover these were no vines at all. The goblins, in their treachery, had orchestrated the tangle by design.
Herule tried anyway but the weave of the ropes, and the slick of the mud, made the attempt fruitless. Finally an orc was on him, grappling with his arms and kicking at his knees. Two more joined the struggle, and under their combined might, they wrestled Herule to the ground.
“Brothers,” The pinned Lizardman shouted through the victorious din of gray-skins, “Brothers! Wait for Herule!”
(Continue to Ep.4)
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