Chapter 8

A wagon rattled along a dirt road, its wheels creaked under the weight of the load. Two mounted guards rode ahead. Their tabbards and shields bore the rampant stag of Port Tamerand. Thick trees choked the road from all sides concealing the danger that lurked there. The woodland serenity interrupted by frequent coughs from the wagoneer. He sat bundled in blankets and a cloak.
One of the guards signaled and everyone stopped. Before him stood three warriors wearing the masks of the Crescent Moon Tribe. Two brandished jagged axes and the third, apparently the leader, stood with a long spear pointed at the face of the mounted guard. Behind the wagon, three more emerged armed with short bows. The one with the spear spoke with a thick Orcish accent. "Surrender your cargo to the Crescent Moon, we have a dozen Orcs surrounding you." The lead guard raised his hands, showing his empty palms to the Orc "What is within this wagon belongs to the Crescent Moon already. Please help yourself." As the bandit cocked his head in confusion, the cover of the wagon leapt into the air on a gust of wind. The six Orcs within stood and aimed their bows at the archers on the ground.
"Perhaps you'd like to reconsider." Said the guard on the horse. "Meet the real Crescent Moon Tribe." Looking at each other for confirmation, the attackers lowered their weapons. A cry from the woods rang out "Kill them all!" and the impostors raised their weapons to attack. The Orcs in the wagon let loose, two arrows hit each of the archers on the ground as the Orcs paired up their targets to insure kills. The lead guard kicked aside the spear pointing at his face and lunged his horse forward passed the three before him.
A howl rang out and several more men emerged from hiding in the woods, each brandishing swords or axes. Each wearing the imposter mask of the Crescent Moon Tribe. The spearman turned to swipe at the guard, grazing his back with the spear blade. His two axe-men split up. One ran for the wagoneer and the other charged the rear guard. The lead guard stepped from his saddle and turned to face his foe. The spearman's facemask turned sideways a second time as he watched the guards helmet reshape itself into a headband revealing the face of Wilgar. The Cleric threw his cloak back and smiled slightly, raising his mace above his head, ready to strike. The six real Orcs jumped from the back of the wagon drawing their own implements of war to engage the men now emerging from the forest. As swords clashed all around him, the axeman charged the rear guard. The mounted guard hopped up to a crouch on the saddle and then leapt onto the incoming attacker tumbling them both against the front wheel of the wagon.
Meanwhile, Vannah stood from the center of the wagon, her arms raised in ritual movement as she called the elements to her will. The earth shook and the road behind the wagon erupted, throwing dirt and debris into the air. Two massive rock hands emerged from the crevice, swatting the attackers away. Soon the rest of the huge stony body emerged from the hole.
In front of the wagon, Wilgar sidestepped a spear thrust. With a quick flick of the wrist, he busted the haft with his mailed gauntlet. His mace hummed as he dropped it squarely on the shoulder of his attacker. The crunch of metal and bone were drowned out by the howling of the imposter while he buckled to the ground at Wilgar’s feet.
The axeman charging the wagoneer found an empty seat as he arrived. Looking around for his quarry, he caught a swift leather boot to the face. Spitting blood, he stepped back and looked again to see the wagoneer remove his cowl, revealing Cirox-Thong scowling at him from between the wagons horses. On the ground nearby, Oshiah, disguised as the rear guard, tangled with the axeman. As they struggled against each other, Oshiah felt a blade stick him in the ribs. Wincing, he back-rolled off of his foe, coming to his feet. His empty hands poised at the ready as his helmet tumbled to the ground. His attacker came to his feet, pulling the Orc mask off, revealing a very human face. The two men squared off while the sounds of battle raged around them.
Swiping the bloody knife back and forth the Orc impostor attempted to gauge his enemy. He suddenly lunged toward Oshiah's belly, but Oshiah slipped inside the attackers thrust and struck him in the forearm with a rigid finger. The knife dropped as the man yelped in pain, his fingers curling inward as his muscles tightened uncontrollably. He flailed at Oshiah with his other hand, but his attack was in vain. Oshiah deflected the poorly aimed attack and slid in even closer to his foe, wrapping his hands around his head. A quick flick of Oshiah’s wrist brought a sudden end to his troubles with a resounding crack.
Turning toward the wagon, Oshiah saw the final moments of the assault on Cirox Thong. The assailant staggered backward with a cluster of steel darts protruding from his throat and slumped to the ground. Cirox stepped down from the tongue of the wagon smiling at his handy work. Behind the wagon, Vannah’s stone creature had completely emerged from the crevice and had made short work of many of the men assaulting from there. The few who were outside the creature’s reach fell at the hands of the vengeful Orcs. In a matter of moments, it was all over. Several bodies of the Crescent Moon Tribe imposters lay twisted and crumpled at the feet of the true Tribesmen. What they did to the remains of those men is not for the weakhearted, but their message was clear for any who traveled that road in the future. Imposters will not be tolerated.