"Heads down if you don't wanna lose 'em, ladies!"
Not a moment too soon, my head ducks down as a wave of heat rushes over the battlefield and the fields around us are set alight. A scream is torn from someone's throat when stray pitch ignites their clothes, though it's cut off soon after by their opponent; I can't tell if they're bold or stupid. Anyone who stays standing when a load of flaming pitch in the air's gotta be one of them.
"Mira, you and Violet shut that siege crew down or we're not goin' to have anyone left to take this castle!" yells out Captain Felhammer. His stout form is covered in distinctive dwarven plate, and he's waving the waraxe in his hand towards the catapult up on the wall. The men surrounding it are already back to loading another shot, a massive boulder by the looks of things.
I crack my knuckles, then hoist my warhammer with both hands. "Ya got it, boss. We'll open up the door while we're at it, so be ready to come and help us, aye?"
The old dwarf cackles, axe flying to brain an onrushing invader. "Don't you worry 'bout us, lassie. Ain't an army in the world worth more than ol' Felhammer."
I shrug my shoulders to get my breastplate into place, since I'll be needing the movement for the full sprint ahead of us. Most of my company can't help from leering at all the exposed flesh below the plate, though. My almost chocolate skin is apparently a rarity in Morhaine, and in my short time here, it's clear that sexual boundaries are much looser here than my old home; in a penal company like this, those boundaries are basically non-existent. Can't blame them too much, though, cause hot damn am I damn hot. Dark skin stretched over corded muscles capable of snapping a man in half, abs that glisten in the morning sun, and a body that has curves in only the right places, even if they might be covered in scars. Slap my natural beauty together with an ornate breastplate and a refusal to wear anything else except shaved leathers over my nethers, you got a recipe for exotic attraction, alright. I mean, yeah, I'm never gonna some lovely noble lady, but put a weapon in my hands and I'll stride the field like a valkyrie! Whatever the hell those are. Felhammer said it once, sounds pretty cool.
Violet, the only mage whose crime record was bad enough to get stuck with us, is also the only one who seems completely unaffected by my nearly-naked appearance. Hell, if it weren't for her occasional tantrum, I'd be concinved she's not even a real person. Rumour has it she's a half-elf, which I'm willing to believe since her face does have something of the eternal in it. She looks young at first glance, barely an adult, but her frigid blue eyes contain decades of scorn and study in them. Long sky-blue hair streams out behind her like a banner, while the deep purple robes that she's nick-named for encase her slender frame, lithe arms and legs always seeming curled up in suspicion, or perhaps in preparation to flay someone with her potent magics. No, it's definitely that last one, given that she's already murdered a few of the more handsy additions to our company since joining up.
Her voice, just as frosty as her eyes, escapes from narrow lips already pursed in displeasure. "Why do you always have to send her with me? I don't care for the way she looks at me."
Felhammer just points at the catapult again. "You got problems with Mira, you settle them after we finish up this siege. Until then, do your damn job, mage!"
Violet may be able to snort with the most derisive sorts, but unlike the rest of us, she holds out hope for leaving the company. So after giving her best aforementioned snort, the purple-swathed mage begins to move her hands in arcane gestures, ready to teleport the pair of us onto the battlements. However much we don't get along, the fact she's one of the few magic-users capable of such precise casting is pretty impressive. So long as she doesn't teleport me into open air again.
The familiar sense of having my gut ripped out and stuffed back in, which I think she once called vertigo, quickly passes - far quicker than the surprise of the artillery crew suddenly in front of me. For one of them, the surprise never passes at all when my massive hammer cracks into the side of his head, sending the lifeless body soaring over the wall down into the seething fight beyond. Another of the crew follows the same way before the men jump into defense, drawing shortswords from their belts in an attempt to fight back. But it's a futile endeavour, since my hammer is more then capable of breaking the tiny blades as well as the men who hold them. Only one is smart enough to try and flee to safety, though even he doesn't make it far before a pair of glittering, amethyst swords appear out of nowehere and fly through the air, impaling the fleeing man midstride.
Violet holds a scented handkerchief to her nose, one immaculate eyebrow raised at the melee happening all around us. In the keep's courtyard, and in the fields beyond the walls, two armies are clashed together in desperation, the numbers too even for any hope of a quick resolution. So far, our "General" has been content to throw a company or two at these walls to "test the defenses," which essentially meant a dozen or two soldiers sent to die for nothing except Logan's amusement and gratification. That was, until the actually competent rebel Harrick Briggman ransacked the completely defenseless supply wagons and forcing this fight to unfold; an all-out assault lacking any form of coherence or tactics, aimed at the fort of Briggmire.
Which suits me just fine. Thanks to Lord Logan's incompetence, it means no one is paying attention to our company anymore. Given that this whole fight is over some ancient relic in Briggman's possession, whoever manages to best the rebel and claim it walks out with a king's ransom. And I very much intend on getting there first. Waving a hand towards the gate, I shout out, "Break it open with your magic, I'll secure the gatehouse. After that, we're rich."
"Very well, though breaking through that much material is going to be costly. I'll have to conserve the rest of my energy in case the artifact we're looking for turns out to be a weapon," the mage replies.
"Don't worry, we'll get you to the artifact. Just keep your end of the bargain."
When Violet gives me an enigmatic smile in return, one somehow even scarier than her usual glare, I race over the keep's gatehouse. Inside, a pair of guards are firing crossbows down into the throng below while a third man bearing a shield stands near to window overlooking the courtyard, keeping watch for any signal or sign of attack on the gate. Shame he didn't account for a mage putting us right outside his door.
When the shield guard's lifeless body collapses to the ground, torso caved in at a 90-degree angle, the two crossbowmen turn surprised looks my way. Which quickly turn to fear at the sight of the huge, blood-stained hammer in my hands. One of them throws his weapon on the ground, shouting, "I surrender, please, I surrender!" The other follows suit, though not quite as pathetically as his comrade. Under strict orders, the two of them crank the nearby windlass, finally lifting the old, now blood-stained doors that had held firm throughout the siege. A roar surges from Morhaine's army at the sight, which is matched with determined shouts from the defenders, who race to defend the entryway.
After killing off the two turncoats, and shouting to the surprised Violet to call off her spell, I leap to the ground. Captain Felhammer and the other four members of our tiny company jog up, the old dwarf tipping his helm in respect. "Nice work there, lassies. Now remember, we're going straight for the armory while those idiots behind us fight towards the keep. Nico's got the old map for us, but it don't cover no new defenses this Briggman's set up, got it? Eyes out, ladies," he cautions, patting Nico's perpetually smiling head. Her cat-like ears and tail flick back and forth from the pleasure, though when Felhammer removes his hand, she draws a pair of cruelly serrated daggers with the same bright expression.
I quickly look around, searching for the keep's armory. Not hard to find, since Briggman's chief lieutenant is stationed nearby, coincidentally keeping his elite units in reserve near himself. His clean-shaven head gleams in the sunlight, the massive sword on his back almost the size of my own weapon. A savage grin crosses my face at the thought of matching blades against this 'Derek the Talon.'