The Last Satyr: The Two Paths Part 2
The Path of the Messenger Tunnels

Marroh, young Joe, and Amien found the messenger tunnel they were in had returned them to the highway. Fortunately, they reached the next messenger tunnel without being discovered. That would have been bad. Yet it seemed their good luck would hold for they judged the drow city was not far. They had been in here for days and their destination had to be near.

They hoped this last messenger tunnel would finally exit at the city. Yet it did not. Instead, after a long walk, it once again took them back to the main highway and to frustration once more.

This time, they were not so lucky. Before they reached the next messenger tunnel, a troop of orcs spotted them and raised the alarm. The trio raced against the pounding drums of pursuit. When they finally reached the next messenger tunnel and entered it, it was with the orcs close behind.

In the narrow confines of the passage, Amien’s discerning eyes glinted with recognition. A seasoned strategist to war, his hand, firm on the hilt of a sword forged in the ancient fires of valor, conveyed a resolve familiar to those who had faced the encroaching darkness before.

“This is to our advantage,” he declared, casting a vigilant gaze around. “If the orcs chase us in here, we can fight them one at a time.”

“Aye!” agreed Marroh. “If they use swords. But what about arrows?”

“Pull up your chainmail hood,” Amien advised. “That will deflect them.”

“That works for you and me,” the dwarf replied with a nod. “But what about young Joe? He has no chainmail, and orcs are very good shots with arrows.”

“His shield is good,” Amien assured him, looking back for orcs. “I should have found more time to teach him to use it against arrows. Marroh! You heard me teach young Joe how to use his shield the first time. Remind him again. In the meantime,” he instructed young Joe, “stand between the dwarf and me. That way, our armor will protect you from arrows both from the front and behind. If any arrows come from above, take a knee and angle your shield over your head. That will stop them. You should be safe.”

“Expect those arrows to come as a surprise,” warned Marroh to young Joe, his eyes casting warily about. “They shall see us long before we see them.”

“If we see them at all,” added Amien with a grim nod.

“What about drow?” Marroh asked Amien. “Have you ever fought a drow?”

“Drow? Until the drider killed those behind us, I had never even seen a drow.”

“You might now. Those orcs carry the alarm for them to come. When they do, they don’t use arrows,” said the dwarf, “but darts launched by a small crossbow. They do little damage, but they’re often coated with sleep potion to put you out for 2-4 hours. When you wake up, you’ll find yourself a drow slave. For killing up close, they carry swords and daggers as well as shields like young Joe’s and chainmail like us. They are actually better equipped than any of us are, faster, and more skilled.”

“So, how then do we fight them?” Amien wished to know, drawing his sword and waiting for the orcs to appear.

“With brute strength,” said the dwarf with certainty. “They are of Elfish blood and so more dexterous but not as strong as we. My broad axe may not penetrate their armor, but it will break their bones beneath—and they do not have strong constitutions. As for the two of you,” he added, “while the drow’s adamantine armor is very good, it is heavier than mithril. So they can’t wear much of it. That works for fighting each other but, against us, a good blow will hurt them. Likewise, you can cut and chop off their limbs, especially their heads. A well-aimed, low blow to the side of the neck should do it.”

“Cut off their heads,” stated Amien with a nod and a testy swing of his sword as he let Marroh lead the way ahead. “That I can do. Anything else?”

“Other things are in our favor too, though not many,” added Marroh. “No elf born is a ‘close-in’ fighter. Although their strikes are quick and their swords keen, they lack power in their swing to penetrate our armor, so they will want to stand back and use their darts. That could be trouble for young Joe. And, while they wear black cloaks," he added, "they are less difficult to see than you might think. They have no elfish qualities like our own cloaks. Indeed! Even with their drow night vision, they may find it difficult to see us if we stand still, for we blend in well with the rocks in ours. Beyond that, they may also try and toss their fairy fire at us to try to illuminate us, but the fire itself does no harm.”

“What you say is of some comfort,” said Amien as they continued on ahead. “What else should young Joe here know?”

“They dislike bright light,” answered the dwarf to young Joe. "Torches won't blind them but our elf lanterns will for a while."

Amien turned his eyes back then, hearing the expected sound of footsteps and armor clanking from behind.

'They have caught up," he said. "You two go ahead. I shall hold these orcs off. I fear the drow you mentioned will attack us from ahead. I want you two to meet them. Cover me from behind."

No sooner did Marroh and young Joe leave than Amien cracked on his lantern light and killed his first orc, the first of many to come. Soon orc blood ran everywhere as his blade danced.

Young Joe and Marroh had not gone very far either when they saw they saw the enemy ahead coming towards them from the other end of the tunnel by the light of the glow stones. Marroh spotted they wore helmets and carried shields. They weren't orcs.

"Drow," he said of them. "We must be close to the city for them to arrive this fast."

"What will we do?" asked young Joe fearfully.

“Let them come! Get down close behind me,” Marroh cautioned young Joe. “Their darts will come first.”

Even the dwarf spoke, the first small darts came whistling in. Yet they bounced harmlessly off the dwarf’s chainmail armor.

“Once they close in, keep to my left,” warned Marroh to young Joe with a sideways glance. “Give me room to swing. Stay low and use straight thrusts! Aim for their unprotected legs and hands. Remember how to use your shield! If your shield is low, your sword strikes over it. If your shield is high, your sword strikes under it. Thumb up for darts. Thumb down for daggers. Thumb points to the side for swords. Get it wrong and you’ll be a pincushion for drow weapons!”

“Gotcha. What’s a thumb, anyway?”

Even as young Joe spoke, the drow rush came. Marroh struck his lantern gem to light it and used it to illuminate the enemy and trouble their eyes. It shocked the dwarf to see the enemy. They had the heads of spiders. Yet then he remembered the drow insect helmets in the Pass. sᴇaʀᴄh thᴇ FɪndNøvel.ɴet website on Gøøglᴇ to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Dark skinned and white haired, they were much better equipped than orcs, wearing form-fitting armor to emphasize agility and allowing for swift movements. Their black uniforms too were designed to match the darkness. A deadly enemy they were. Deft. Fast.

Yet it was the drow though who were first driven back by the abrupt light and the force of the two's blows. The enemy firmly dealt with, the boys’ confidence rose. Yet the drow, though they hated the light, gradually adjusted their eyes to it. Further, Marroh was not yet full-grown and, though strong, he lacked the hammer blows of his fathers. It took him several swings to kill just two. Fortunately, young Joe eventually toppled four more using wounds to the drow's unprotected arms and legs.

Only now a new terror pushed its way to the front of the drow. It was a thing of such dread that even the drow themselves got out of its way.

“What is that thing?” breathed young Joe in wide eyed alarm. "I'd give him a nasty look but he's already got one!"

Whatever it was, it was big enough and ugly enough to strike fear in anything.

“Draegloth,” muttered the dwarf, setting his eyes with unwavering determination. “Great killers of my people are they. It is the spawn of a drow priestess and a demon. The drow will breed anything!”

The draegloth, if that’s what it was, stood taller than a man. A grotesque fusion of drow and spider demon; it had four arms, two of them large and powerful for holding swords, and two smaller, weaker, but more dexterous ones for holding daggers. Its claws and sharp teeth glistened with a dark hunger for flesh, a chilling reminder of its monstrous origins. In its two mighty arms, it brandished a single great sword. Yet it bore no armor or shield. Nay! For it needed none, trusting its black blood to keep it alive. Just its sheer cruelty of malice struck fear in the hearts of its opponents.

“That’s an adamantine blade,” warned the dwarf of its sword. “By its size and that thing's obvious strength, it will cleave right through my chainmail and your shield both. He will kill us sure as certain! Yet he cannot swing such a great sword from side to side in this narrow passage. He shall have to raise the blade up over his head and swing down. That is when you must strike the fatal blow, young Joe! For I am too short and he too tall. Any wound below the neck will not kill it. I shall try and blind him for you with my elf lantern. Make your blow count, for you shall only get but one!”

Young Joe's eyes were as big as saucers. That thing filled him with fear. He shook so he could hardly move. He was to charge that? Wouldn't it be easier to run?

The draegloth’s movements abruptly halted, its eyes fixed on the dwarf’s axe and young Joe’s blade. With a sinister grin, it hoisted the massive sword high above its head, ready to cleave them both in two with a single devastating strike.

“Now, Joe!” called Marroh, raising his light to blind it.

Although the thought of facing such a formidable foe intensified his fear, Young Joe conquered it. Like the heroes of legend, he leaped forward with an upward lunge of his sword at the dazzled monster. Its tip caught the abomination under the chin. Deep it drove upwards through its throat, and then into its brain. But already the great sword was coming down and with unstoppable force. For two young boys the moment of life or death had arrived. Young Joe leaped aside, putting his backside to the wall to get out of its way. Marroh did the same opposite him. In the cramped quarters, the great sword passed right down the middle between them. Had Marroh been old enough to have a full beard, it probably would have been fully shaved off. As it was, it cut the front buckle of his belt off clean.

The draegloth pitched forward, headfirst between them, his dead body following his sword, and his black demon blood boiling and hissing on the floor.

Young Joe cast a glance at Marroh, who was also breathing heavily but wore a triumphant grin.

"Doesn't he count as more than one?" asked young Joe of the fallen monster.

"Granted, I'll give you that Marroh conceded. "We'll call him two."

Then they drew back from their sizzling, fallen foe to regroup.

The drow looked shocked with dismay at what had happened to their greatest weapon. For a moment, they hesitated with disbelief. Yet then they snarled and grew twice as angry. They redoubled their attack on the two boys with a vengeance beyond anything they had ever seen before.

“Dodging orcs, dancing with drow, and narrowly avoiding becoming demon chow," Marroh growled, fighting them off. “Just another day in in this forsaken realm!"

Step by step, Marroh and young Joe now found themselves being driven back from the fallen demon drow. While behind them, the relentless advance of the orcs pressed Amien towards them also. With each passing moment, the enemy inched them perilously ever closer to the brink of defeat. Against such overwhelming odds, the distance between them closed steadily, relentlessly... getting shorter with every sound of a clanging blade and breaking shield. The noose around their necks seemed to tighten with each passing moment.

Doomed. There was no escaping it. They found themselves sandwiched between the relentless orcs on one side and the cunning drow on the other. Hope had abandoned them. The enemy relentlessly closed in on the three faithful companions, the circle of their desperate struggle for survival growing ever tighter. At last, they stood back-to-back, their breathing heavy and their blows weakening. Triumph filled the enemy’s cries, and they reveled in the intoxicating scent of impending victory. Their cruel laughter reverberated through the cold tunnel, like shards of glass shattering the silence.

“There’s fresh meat ahead, boys!” bellowed the orc leader with a deep-throated roar.

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