• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 1
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 2
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 3
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 4
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 5
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 6
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 7
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 8
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 9
• DCC Character Level 1: Joane Cayhurst
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 10
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 11
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 12
• DCC Character Level 1: Briene Byley
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 13
• Doom of the Savage Kings, Chapter 14

“Well, this is awkward, isn’t it?” Haffoot sighed and scuffed the toe of her boot into the patchy dirt. The sun had climbed above the tree line, within a dome of clear blue sky. It was a glorious late summer day, full of warmth and birdsong, that banished any sense of the coming chill of autumn.

Yet the gates of Hirot remained closed.

“Oy! Nothan!” Joane called up angrily. “What’s the hold up, then? The Hound’s dead and gone for good! Let us in! We’ve been standing here forever with our thumbs up our asses! Hello?”

There was a long, silent pause. A bird called out particularly loudly from nearby, answered by another. Otherwise, everything was quiet and still. Umur swore softly in his native tongue. Briene whispered to Erin, who stood with her arms crossed over her white-mailed chest, frowning. Hilda, as always, leaned on her staff, back from the others, her face shrouded beneath her hood.

Finally, a youthful voice answered from the palisades wall. “Opening the gate now, Joane!”

“That’s not Nothan,” Joane murmured to her companions. “That was Caspar. I don’t know what’s going on.”

“I believe we’re about to find out,” Umur rumbled. A series of thunks and clacks echoed as multiple people unbarred the gates from inside. Slowly, very slowly, the heavy, wooden gates swung open.

The Jarl was there, wearing his wolf pelt. Chainmail glinted from beneath the cloak, and he bore an enormous, bearded axe in his meaty hands. Despite his age, with a bald pate and stringy, gray strands of hair hanging to his shoulders, the Jarl was an enormous man, tall and barrel-chested. His scarred face glowered like a thundercloud as he took in the companions outside the village walls.

He was far from alone. Nothan the Younger, the sharp-faced leader of the Night Watch, stood on one side, nervous and unhappy, his lips pressed together tightly and his eyes roaming anywhere but Joane and her companions. On the Jarl’s other side stooped the robed, oily weasel, Sylle Ru. Unlike Nothan, the thin seer’s eyes glittered with a malicious glee, a gaze that hungrily roamed over the party and lingered on Briene.

Behind the trio of men were all seven of the Jarl’s thegns, brutish women and men, each armored and bearing weapons of various sizes and shapes. Their names were well known to Joane and Briene: Ofenloch, Kreig, Clohn the Bald, Ori One-Eye, Utheryl, Haedrick, and Haelf Halfson. Each was a warrior of renown in Hirot, and the Jarl’s martial might. Only now did it occur to Joane that none had ever been selected for sacrifice to the Hound, nor had any of their wives, husbands, or children. The young woman scowled at the realization that perhaps the lottery had been a sham, or at least influenced in some way to protect the Jarl’s inner circle. Knowing she had almost lost her life at the standing stones made her cheeks burn with rage.

Stretching to either side of the thegns were the few remaining members of the town watch, each dressed in yellow and green livery, and each clutching a spear. Their eyes were wide and terrified, their faces glistening with sweat. Many had been pressed into service when watch members had been sacrificed to the Hound or died trying to fight it. They were too young, too old, or too infirmed for real battle, and yet they stood with the Jarl and his thegns, seemingly ready to charge.

Finally, congregated some distance behind the Jarl’s gang of ruffians, the majority of Hirot’s remaining residents formed a large mob. The several dozen villagers gasped, pointed, and murmured when they saw Joane, Briene, and their companions. Many wept and held young ones close, shielding them from what was to come yet keeping their own eyes fixed on the proceedings.

“I told you to leave,” the Jarl raised his voice for all to hear. “Why have you returned?”

Umur glanced at the others and stepped forward, still outside the open gates. “We’ve come to inform you that the Hound is dead and gone for good. We’ve seen to it.”

A murmur ran throughout the crowd of villagers. Several thegns bent heads together to whisper.

“We ask nothing in return,” the dwarf continued. “We simply wish to resupply and repair our arms and armor before heading on our way.”

The Jarl’s face darkened. “You expect us to believe it’s dead? That you killed it?”

“Blasphemy!” Father Beacom called out from the crowd far behind. “Only Justicia’s judgment will save us!”

Umur shrugged. “Believe what you will, but the Hound will bother you and your people no more.”

The thin, rat-faced seer, Sylle Ru, tugged at the Jarl’s arm. The large man bent and listened, nodding once before straightening.

“And the death of Broegan Cayhurst? What say you there?” the Jarl’s lip curled in a sneer.

“What!?” Joane’s cheeks flushed an even deeper red. “We weren’t even here when my father died, you twit!”

Erin placed a hand on the woman’s arm, holding her from stepping forward. “What are you suggesting, sir?” Her strong voice carried over the distance.

“He dropped dead,” the Jarl made sure the villagers behind could hear. “Witnesses said he fell over mid-sentence, untouched. I’ve got no other explanation but magic, and you have a magic user in your group.”

The crowd of villagers murmured, some agreeing loudly and others scoffing. The Jarl’s face was as flat as stone, but Sylle Ru grinned maliciously and rubbed his hands together.

“You can’t be serious,” Umur groaned.

“Hand over your mage for questioning, and we’ll lock the rest of you away while we handle the Hound ourselves. Your meddling has confused too many people, and too many have died since you’ve arrived. Or do you deny that you took several of our people into the woods nearly a week ago, and none returned?”

“These people bloody saved you all!” Joane cried, and Erin tightened her grip to keep her back. “You probably poisoned my pa just to blame it on us, you monster! It was Iraco that attacked us in the woods, and you know it! Monster and fool!” Tears blurred her eyes and began spilling down her cheeks.

“Watch your tongue, girl,” the Jarl growled, his face darkening. “Or you’ll lose it.”

“Jarl,” Umur stepped forward. Joane turned to sob into Erin’s embrace. “We’ve killed the Hound and done Hirot a service. I see you’re ready for violence, and I assure you people will die if you keep pressin’ your points here. As the lass says, most who’ve died with us were to your huntsmen. Iraco and his men have paid for that, buried near the Snake King’s tomb.” At mention of Ulfheonar, more villagers murmured and cried out, and thegns whispered. A few of them looked at the spear in Joane’s hand thoughtfully.

“Stop the bloodshed, Jarl,” Umur continued. “You know we’ve done nothing wrong. We’ll leave and you can rebuild in peace. We ask for nothing from you. This is madness, man.”

Silence filled the next several heartbeats. Joane pulled away from Erin’s comforting arms with a nod of thanks. Briene reached out to lay a hand on Joane’s shoulder, as the red-haired young woman wiped her nose with the back of her hand while staring at the Jarl with hate-filled eyes. The other companions held their breath, waiting for the Jarl’s response. His thegns shifted their feet, seeming to do the same. Fingers on both sides idly touched weapons. Even the crowd of villagers had quieted, sensing the importance of the moment.

The Jarl exhaled, grimacing. He took one of his giant hands off the wicked axe and rubbed his face. “Gods. There has been enough bloodshed, right enough.”

Sylle Ru tugged frantically at the Jarl’s cloak, whispering and making dramatic hand gestures. The Jarl grunted something and shook his head, brushing the seer’s hand away. The robed man persisted, now urgently and angrily.

The Jarl cut him off. “Silence,” he snapped, then straightened and glowered at the companions at the gate. “Go. Take your people and leave, dwarf.”

“Good enough,” Umur nodded, and turned to the others. “Let’s first check…”

“NO!” a thin, reedy voice cut through the space between the Jarl and the companions. It was Sylle Ru, spittle foaming at his mouth. The robed man took several steps forward. He thrust a thin, knobby finger at Umur. “They are villains! Liars and thieves! Thegns, kill them now!”

Everyone could see the dark red and black energy beginning to swirl around the seer’s outstretched finger as he began chanting in an otherworldly baritone voice.

In that moment, with the Jarl, thegns, city watch, villagers, and companions stunned, only Joane moved. She took several loping steps, snarling as she moved. From between the palisades’ open gates she launched Ulfheonar’s wolf-spear through the air, her red-haired braid flailing. The legendary weapon soared through the open space.

Sylle Ru’s eyes widened and the magics crackling at his fingertip sparked and faltered. At the last second, he threw up his hands defensively. The broad head of wolf-spear struck the man’s chest with a meaty thunk! and he fell backwards. Thin hands weakly, spastically grasped for the spear’s hilt, then stilled. Sylle Ru was dead, his eyes open and frozen in fear, his mouth agape.

Joane stood panting, her face bunched in anger. Villagers cried out in horror. The thegns’ wide eyes looked from the Jarl to Joane and back again. At least half of them gripped weapons tightly, while others took a step involuntarily back.

All the while, the Jarl’s expression did not move. His thunderhead frown remained fixed as he strode forward to his seer’s corpse, tucking his great bearded axe into his belt. He looked down, sighed, then pulled the spear free. The Jarl examined the wolf-spear in his enormous hands, his eyes roaming over the ancient script and snaking patterns carved into its shaft.

The companions neither moved nor spoke. Everyone, it seemed waited to see what the leader of Hirot would do next.

His heavy gaze fell on Joane, still panting, cheeks flushed.

“It truly is Ulfheonar’s weapon? You found the Snake King’s crypt?” he said in a low, thoughtful voice only he and she could hear.

Joane swallowed hard, then nodded.

“And the Hound? It’s truly gone, then?” the Jarl raised his voice, and it was clear the Jarl addressed Umur now.

“Aye,” the dwarf said. “It’s all true.”

The man sighed and glanced down again at his seer. His words were heavy and tired. “Alright then. You have until sundown to resupply. Then leave Hirot behind.”

He dropped the wolf-spear in the dirt. Like a lumbering bear, the Jarl turned his back on the companions and faced his thegns. Joane and her companions did not hear what he said in low, commanding tones. The assemblage of warriors glanced back at the group, some with hatred on their face, some with respect, and at least one with a grin, and then, as a group, they strode through the town square, towards the crowd of villagers, the town watch members trailing behind. The mob parted before them, shouting questions, as the Jarl stopped to address his few remaining people. Though he did not realize it, the Jarl took a place next to the strongbox atop a wooden post, where he had stood every three days for weeks on end.

Sylle Ru’s thin, crumpled form lay in the dirt, untouched and untended, like a discarded doll.

---

Late that afternoon, Umur stood outside of the mad widow Ymae’s hut. His horned helmet was tucked under one arm, battered shield strapped to his back, and longsword at his belt. Yet he’d washed his hair and face, and he wore fresh cotton beneath his black, scaled armor. The dwarf ran his free hand through his beard, scowling furiously as he faced the door.

He grumbled, “Bloody madness. I’m leaving at sundown, never to return. What does an empty marriage do? Nothing is what it does. It’s madness.” Then he cursed in dwarven and turned to leave.

The hut’s door opened.

“Ah, you’re Hilda’s dwarf, then? Well, come here and let’s have a look at you.”

Umur turned.

In the doorway was a young human woman, pleasantly plump. Her blonde hair was tied back in an elaborate braid, wildflowers woven throughout, which hung over one shoulder. Her violet-colored dress was simple, with a belt woven with flowers, and she was barefoot. The woman’s face was cocked to one side, appraising him and grinning with deep dimples.

“I– I’m sorry, ma’am,” Umur stammered. “I was looking for Ymae. Is she home?”

The woman chuckled. “I am she and she is me. Why have you come to my hut wearing the ancient armor of a Savage King’s lieutenant, Master Dwarf?”

“I, uh…” he coughed, flustered. “I was told by Hilda that she made you a promise. For the net.”

“She did indeed. And here you are to fulfill it, eh?” The woman put a fist on one hip, which she thrust out. Umur had never found humans particularly attractive, but even without whiskers this woman was lovely.

He realized that she was waiting for him to answer with an arched eyebrow. He coughed again. “I suppose so. The… the net was most helpful against the Hound.”

“What are you here to do, Master Dwarf?” Ymae leaned forward ever-so-slightly, eagerly, on tiptoes. “Say the words.”

“Well, I… I’d heard that if the Hound was dead that you wanted a… a husband. So I’m here to marry you, I suppose.” He nodded, planting his feet firmly. “As promised.”

Ymae threw back her head and cackled with glee. She spun on the ball of one bare foot as she laughed, her dress swirling. Then the young woman was clapping her hands together, eyes glittering with delight and her white smile bright.

“Oh, well done! Well done!” she cried and leapt at Umur. The dwarf dropped his helmet into the dirt to catch her awkwardly, but Ymae managed to meld into his armored embrace with grace. She kissed him, still smiling, long and hard.

“That’s enough,” a voice hissed from the doorway. Umur blinked, confused, as Ymae pulled herself away from him and turned. He craned his neck to see past her.

Just inside the hut stood a figure of shadow and flame, its form shimmering and dancing like candlelight in a breeze. Umur’s eyes watered to look at it, this thing of darkness that was clearly not of this world.

“He’s done it!” Ymae clapped. “He needed a kiss of thanks, didn’t he? Oh, don’t be jealous, love.” She thrust out her hip again, planting a fist on it.

“What’s this now?” Umur stammered. “I don’ understand.”

Ymae sighed as she stepped back towards the doorway. Flickering hands of black flame reached out to caress her as she drew close.

“Hilda’s oath is fulfilled, Umur Pearlhammer,” the woman said, her voice full of light and joy despite intoning each word like a proclamation. As she spoke, she disappeared into shadow, both moving further into the hut and the strange figure’s embrace. “Go and find your home, though I weep for what you’ll discover. And here is your reward, though your current armor suits you. Perhaps the young Wolf Slayer can use it.”

Umur jumped as the hut door slammed shut. Just outside, folded neatly at the doorstep, was a pile of golden chainmail that glittered and gleamed in the late-afternoon sunlight like fire.

Reflections: Doom of the Savage Kings