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World of Warcraft
Showdown at Weston Hall
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In the days before the wars, before the plague, before the Horde and the Alliance, the countryside of the eastern kingdoms had been dotted with numberless communities of all sorts and sizes, some ranging from no more than a pair of buildings cropped up against the road to large and thriving trade towns. As humanity spread throughout the land some of these isolated towns continued to swell in size and prominence while others remained perpetually small and quiet.Showdown at Weston Hall
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The town of Weston was one of these latter sorts. A small town, as reckoning went, but fortunate enough to be possessed of all the sorts of things a small town needed: an inn and stable for the passers-through, a smithy for the local metalworking, a general store, an apothecary, a tannery, and other such venues of employment. At the center of the community was the town's hall, a large building used by Weston's council which doubled as a church on holy days.
Weston was not one of those fortunate towns like Southshore or Ambermill. When the plague swept through the eastern kingdoms, it killed Weston as surely as it killed those who suffered beneath its wrath. Many of the town's populace died and those who did not perish fled, leaving the place abandoned and forgotten. Empty it sat, waiting for the day to come when someone would rediscover it and bring life back into the silent streets.
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Edgar Tolliver kept his back hunched and his head low as he stole from the tree line, steps light and cautious but nonetheless swift. In his hands he held his precious rifle, keeping the butt of the weapon snug against his shoulder. A load of heavy shot rested in the weapon's barrel, ready to be loosed at the first sign of danger. As the man crept towards the outline of the silent buildings, he stroked a claw over the trigger guard, hoping he would not need to make use of the gun. If he did, his mission would likely have already failed.
Tolliver wore the dark blue of the Deathguard, the army of the Forsaken. Unlike the rank-and-file, however, the spry and undersized soldier had disdained the use of the heavier armor most donned, preferring lighter, padded gear that hindered his movement less. Where a melee combatant needed the metal to survive the blows of his opponent, a marksman liked Tolliver preferred to stay out of the back-and-forth entirely.
The sun had risen a short while earlier, causing the Deathguard to curse and lengthen his stride. He'd been supposed to be in Weston when it rose, but the horse he'd been issued had stepped into a hole on the poorly-maintained road and snapped its right foreleg. Of course, the skeletal creature had been more than willing to continue on despite the inconvenience, but doing so would have been even slower than making his way on foot and so the young soldier had left the animal tied to a tree, patiently waiting for his return. He hoped nothing saw fit to finish the thing in his absence. The Executor would have his hide.
Tolliver shook his head, banishing the horse from his thoughts as his rapid stride carried him over to the closest of the outlying buildings. As he reached the nearest wall he spun, instinctively putting his back to the solid surface and scanning the immediate area for any possible threat. When he saw nothing he ducked around the corner, gun raised and finger light on the trigger should a target present itself. Still nothing. Slowly and easily, Tolliver began to make his way into the town proper, quietly hopeful that his mission wouldn't see any further difficulties.
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Clop-clop. Clop-clop. Clop-clop.
The rhythm of the hooves on the road was a comforting one, a sound of steadiness and surety. The ram's stride had eaten the miles with an ease that surpassed anything a mere horse could manage. Horses were good for a sprint, true, but a ram was in it for the long haul.
Atop the animal's back sat a solid, formidable figure. Though a good portion of his face was hidden by a weather-beaten, wide-brimmed hat and a heavy, blond beard, it would have been easy to tell that the person in question was frowning deeply. With a gentle tug on the reins, he brought his mount to a stop and surveyed the road ahead. The dirt was giving way to streets that had once been nice and neatly cobbled, but were not rough and broken, with weeds growing through the gaps. The ram could handle it, he was sure, but it would be better to go on foot than risk a split hoof. It was a long way back to Southshore.
With a swing of his leg the rider dismounted, dropping to the ground with a heavy thud. The man, as it turned out, was quite short - barely coming up to the ram's shoulder. This was because he was not a man at all, but a dwarf, and what he lacked in height he made up for with bulk. Tugging on the reins of his mount he gently led the ram off the road, tying the reins to a tree where the animal would be free to graze.
Before he left the ram there, he took the time to slide a long object out of its sheath in the various packs the ram carried. Glinting dully in the morning light, the double-barreled gun fit neatly into the dwarf's arms as he began to make his way into the town of Weston.
As he walked, he cracked the barrels open near the gun's stock and reached into a heavy pouch at his waist, withdrawing a pair of heavy slugs that he loaded with surprising delicacy into the waiting breech before snapping it shut again.
The contact had told Ehrhardt - that was the dwarf's name - he was to meet the courier at the town hall in the center of the rows of buildings. The meeting was supposed to take place an hour after sunrise, and Ehrhardt didn't need to recheck his timepiece to know that he was a bit ahead of schedule. Still, no harm showing up early and getting the task over with. Less chance of trouble that way.
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Tolliver had to suppress a snarl as his foot hit a loose cobble and he stumbled. The town had been abandoned for years now and everything was rotting and dilapidated. Fortunately it seemed that the survivors of the plague had been diligent in burying their dead - unlike several towns he could have named, Tolliver saw no corpses here. Not that there would have been much left by now, but the sight of bodies just laying there had always unnerved him.
He smiled a bit. Really, Edgar? Have you looked in a mirror lately? The skinny Forsaken took his hand from his gun and ran it over his face, feeling the gaunt curves of grey skin stretched tightly over the bones beneath. There were some days, he'd found, where you could almost forget what had happened, walked around acting completely human and not even notice a thing out of place. Invariably it ended, but it was always enjoyable while it lasted. Tolliver had learned to hang on to those times tightly, because one day they might stop altogether.
He shook his head. Mind on the game, Edgar, mind on the game. Remaining hunched, he quickly returned to stealing his way through the abandoned buildings, keeping the tower of the central hall in sight at all times. He was thankful there was nothing left moving here, as his nerves were jangling fiercely and he might have ripped off a shot at a stray cat if there had been one to appear. Again he cursed his horse's bad step. If it hadn't been for that mishap he could have been gone from here by now.
Around another corner and the town square was in sight. The town hall was just across the square to his right, and there was still no sign of - movement!
Without conscious thought the Deathguard snapped his rifle to his shoulder, aimed, and squeezed the trigger. The roar of the shot was deafening after the previous silence. Equally loud as the following zinggggg! of the ricochet and Tolliver dived for cover, knowing that he had missed. Sure enough a moment later a loud boom echoed through the air and Tolliver heard wood splintering as something slammed into the wall where he'd been a moment ago. With practiced instinct his fingers were already reloading, working to draw out a second bullet from his bandolier, slamming it into the chamber as he ran. As the Forsaken scrambled for cover a second boom reached his ears and one of the cobbles on the street exploded in front of him. With heave of his shoulders, Tolliver spun and fired, the familiar pow! of his rifle answering the heavy gun of his opponent. The wall of a building across the square rocked as his bullet slammed into it and Tolliver cursed. His shot had gone too high, instinctively aiming for a human opponent. As he threw himself around the corner, Tolliver swore not to make the same mistake again.
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Ehrhardt cursed in florid dwarfish fashion as he wheeled himself back around the wall from whence he'd come, cracking the breeches on his gun and filling them with fresh shells. Snapping the barrels closed he risked sticking out his head as he took aim, pulling the inner trigger as he sighted on the flurry of movement. Even as he did so he knew the slug would crash into the wall harmlessly and he pulled back as his rival fired an answering shot that likewise splintered wood from the corner of the tannery the dwarf cowered behind.
Ehrhardt cursed again, glad he'd left his ram behind as he scuttled away from the corner. The improvised cover would do him no good if his opponent changed the angle of the firefight, so Ehrhardt had to change it first. Huffing as he ran, he circled around the outside of the old tannery, hoping to catch his opponent out of cover. As he rounded the opposite corner and raised his gun to fire, he knew just as he squeezed the trigger that he'd been just a step late. Sure enough, his slug passed through the space where the Forsaken had been as the skinny bastard ducked around the corner and instead zipped through the street past him to slam into the sign of the old general store, rocking it back and forth on rusted chains.
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He was in trouble, he knew, and Tolliver had to resist swearing again. His opponent's double barrels had him outgunned. He thanked everything he knew, from the Dark Lady on down, that he'd seen fit to replace his old crossbow with the rifle or he would have been completely screwed.
Tolliver ran down the length of the wall, legs pumping as he reached the corner and spun behind it. A moment later he turned and stuck his gun out and fired blindly, hearing the sound as the bullet thunked into something wooden.
This was a bad situation for both of them. There was too much cover, too many ways to move from one place to another to pin down an enemy and simply blast him out. The game would belong to whoever thought fastest and guessed right first. Opening the chamber he pried a round from the top of his bandolier, taking a moment to look at the round before he slammed it home. The tip of the bullet was made from crystal rather than mundane lead and from within the glassy surface came a steady purple glow. Tolliver smirked as he loaded the round and closed the chamber, glad he'd been careful to order a few rounds of special ammunition before departing.
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Ehrhardt had almost fallen prey to the Forsaken's trick. Chasing after the fleeing form, he'd stopped just short of running around the corner and getting a face full of lead. Where was that damned courier? Two against one would make the game much more simple. Probably the dullard was running late, or cowering in some makeshift bolt-hole waiting for the gunfire to stop. Ehrhardt cursed again as he cracked the barrels. This time he loaded a pair of fat, snub-nosed rounds into the waiting breeches before snapping them closed. Dance away from me, ye git? Let's see ye dance away from these, he thought.
The street before him was too obvious. Ehrhardt doubled back, running towards the square. Outguess him. Outguess him, damn it, he thought furiously. As he rounded the corner back into the square he saw the Forsaken pop up from around another corner, take aim, and fire. A searing violet glow singed Ehrhardt's eyes and he stepped back, cursing aloud. The reaction saved his life as a tiny glowing comet zipped past him, bursting through the wall of the building behind him to slam into the opposite side of the room within.
"Play that game, will ye!" Ehrhardt roared aloud, aiming through the fuzzy aftermath of the bright round and pulling the outer trigger. The Forsaken had just enough time to duck backwards as the entire wall beside him erupted with the scattered shards of Ehrhardt's round. Blowing smoke from the barrel the dwarf crabbed sideways, firing again as his enemy came into view. The scattered rounds struck all about the Forsaken's hiding spot.
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Tolliver rolled wildly as the sound of ammo striking all around him filled his ears. He felt pain in his lower leg and yelped. Just a graze, he realized. I can't believe I missed that shot! Turning the roll into a run, he quickly moved to swap end-for-end behind the building he used as cover. Opening the chamber he grabbed a round and slammed the bolt home, bringing the rifle up to fire at the retreating form of the dwarf.
Tolliver had to resist cursing. They'd taken cover at opposite ends of the square, with entrance to the town hall sitting there between them, open and tempting. A quick sprint could reach it but would leave the runner open to the enemy's fire and judging by how close the dwarf's aim had been, Tolliver didn't care to test his luck.
A few more shots rang out as the combatants fired upon each other, leaving a good amount of lead embedded in the walls around the square but causing no injuries. As Tolliver spun, fired, and ducked behind the wall, quickly reloading once again he heard a voice call out, "Bang! Bang!"
"How dumb do you think I am?!" he shouted back.
"It was worth a try, laddie!" came the indignant reply and a moment later the wall beside him exploded as the dwarf fired both barrels into it. Tolliver shook his head and spun to fire, realizing with horror that the dwarf had used his little trick to bolt for the town hall. He swiveled and fired, causing the dwarf to stumble, but as Tolliver started to run forward, reaching for the sword belted at his waist, the dwarf reached the safety of the entrance. A warning boom of the double-barreled gun told him not to follow. Trying not to curse, Tolliver threw himself tightly against the arch of the entrance. Maybe he couldn't get in, but for the dwarf there would be no getting out, either.
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Ehrhardt cursed hard as he limped into the waiting room of the town hall, keeping the entryway covered with his remaining slug. Leaning against the far wall, he put his weight on his right left and checked his left. The bullet had gone right through him and left a furrow, thank the makers - he didn't have time to pull a chunk of lead out of himself. With a growl he pulled a wad of bandages from a pouch and, rather than wrapping the wound properly, stuffed the wad through the hole in his pants so that it pressed against the oozing injury. The pain made the dwarf waver on his feet, but he shook his head and moved away from the wall, determined to finish the job.
Stalking into the common room butt-first to keep his gun pointed towards the entrance, he called out, "oiy, ye..." and trailed off there as he saw his contact. The man had died with his back up against the wall, numerous injuries leaving a pool of blood around him. He'd been set upon by a wild animal - or a pack of wild animals and though he'd survived the fight, he hadn't survived the aftermath. Ehrhardt quickly made his way to the man's side. At his left hand there was a metal strongbox with a handle attached to the top plate. That had to be it. Ehrhardt grabbed it with one hand, holding his gun in the other to keep the entry covered.
Now he had to find a way out. The door was covered by his opponent and this hall didn't have a bell tower or a watchtower of any kind. The only option was the window at the far end. Too high off the ground to make a suitable entry, the hall's raised wooden floor made it just perfect for a quick exit. Stumbling forwards, Ehrhardt lurched and then flung the heavy box towards the window, shattering the glass in preparation for his own rapid exit.
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Tolliver heard the shatter of the glass and the sound made him forget about his own safety as he realized his opponent had found something he hadn't considered. Scrambling into the hall, Tolliver had just enough time to see the dwarf's flying body slam into the already-broken window, breaking through as he fell outwards towards the ground. Tolliver aimed hurriedly and pulled the trigger, but it was too late and his round flashed through the spot where the dwarf had been a moment ago. Dropping his gun Tolliver drew his sword and rushed to the window, heedless of all but the need to stop his opponent here and now.
The sight of the dwarf on his back, gun aimed up at the shattered window had just enough time to register with him before the short rang out. Tolliver felt something punch him hard in the chest, knocking him backwards with irresistible force. He heard his sword ring on the ground as he dropped it. As he fell, he struck his head against the floorboards and sprawled there, still.
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The limp was getting worse and worse and Ehrhardt was red-faced and puffing by the time he returned to his ram. Throwing the strongbox into the saddlebags, he used his good leg to boost himself into the saddle, an awkward move made worse by his refusal to relinquish his hold on his gun. Taking the ram's reins, he pulled the beast's head back towards Southshore, kicking him in the side to get him moving at a good clip.
Normally, he would have been a bit more leisurely about such things, but aside from the pain in his leg, the realization he'd made on the way back to the beast spurred him on. The image of the Forsaken flying backwards from the cloud of grey dust wouldn't leave him, and he wanted to be well away from here when his opponent woke up.
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Tolliver rolled the broken clay-head bullet back and forth several times before dropping it. The dum-dum round had exploded against his breastbone, dusting him with grey powder. It still hurt, especially at such close range, but it hadn't penetrated. Tolliver tossed away the remnants of the bullet with a shrug. It didn't really matter, in the end. Alive or dead he'd failed to stop the dwarf, for surely he'd gotten what he came for if he hadn't bothered to finish off the Forsaken.
With a sigh Tolliver sheathed his sword and picked up his gun, slinging it before crossing to the ravaged corpse of the courier, checking it over with a thoroughness that the dwarf hadn't had time for. Tucked into the man's shirt, snug against his chest was a heavy wooden scroll case. Unscrewing the top Tolliver looked inside before grinning and screwing the top back on, carefully stowing the case inside his own bags before making his way out of the town hall and from there, back out the way he'd come. The sun was high in the sky now, and Tolliver pulled his hat from its sling across his back, settling it snugly into place to keep the rays from his eyes. He had a long walk ahead of him.
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The End
The End
