The Ironhart Chronicles

As an aside, this can be found in the AoC Storytellers Hall in its entirety as well.


Here follows the account of Komah Ironhart, Ranger, Mercenary, and Wanderer.


Book I : Fire and Ice


Somewhere in the frozen north...

Prologue

Flames. Always flames. In every dream, he sees them. They are not hot, or menacing, they simply are. What could they mean? Why do they always come? Not a moments respite from their incessant call. Driving him forward. Forward to what?

His eyes snap open, revealing a frozen landscape. The winter is thick this year, the chill in the air is like daggers, prodding through the threads of his cloak. He should have brought leathers to wear over his clothes, but they always slowed him down, and threw off his balance.

"God forsaken wastelands.", he mumbles under his breath.

He gathers his belongings around his bed roll. "No tent," he thinks, "no food, no map, no idea where in the nine hells I'm going." He draws up stiff. He heard it again, a faint crunching sound, like biting into old bread. His hands move, simultaneously, one to his bow staff, and one to the leather pouch at his belt, removing a coiled bow string. He stands, nonchalantly, placing one foot on the base of the staff and bending the top down to the ground, quickly he works the string around the grooves and snaps it into place.
*crruncch*
He picks up his bed roll. His ears have told him everything he needs to know. To his rear, a person was moving as quietly as he could through the edge of the frozen grove of trees he had made camp up wind from. He knew it wasnt smart, but he also knew he would never sleep with the piercing winds blowing through his blankets all night, and the trees offered just enough protection to make it bearable.
*ccrrunch*
Twenty yards, maybe a hair over. Perfect range. A brigand he imagined, or some manner of wasteland bandit intent on the meager posessions he carried with him. A small bed roll, a pack of tools, a hand axe, an old longsword well past its prime, a quiver of eagle feathered arrows, and his longbow. He finished securing his belongings.
*ccruunch*
The sound faded slightly towards the end. "A tree." he thought. He would wait. He made himself to appear busy with something in front of him, his back to his would be robber, or killer. He tightened the laces of his bracer on his right wrist, there to keep the skin from being flayed off his arm should his bow string graze it. He placed his left hand, clutching the bow on the ground. Any moment now.
*crrrunch*
Now. He tucks in and rolls forward, over his bow, twisting as his knees land on the ground to come up facing his adversary. He takes in the scene as if it were happening a moment at a time.

The bandit realizes hes been seen, and begins to rush forward, lifting a short sword, snarling.

The Rangers bow comes up from the ground, as his right hand in the same motion, flings back his cloak and pulls an arrow from the quiver at his back.

The bandit comes on, seventeen yards.

The nock finds the string. He rises and pulls his bow to full draw. Flames dance in his eyes. Always the flames.

Fifteen yards, the bandit began to raise a battle cry.

"Barbarians," he muses, "could have shot this one in the dark he moves so loudly." He sights along the shaft of the arrow, the fletchings brush his cheek. He breathes in deeply, the cold air exhilarating.

Ten yards. And no further. The bowstring snaps forward, launching the arrow the short distance between the Ranger and the bandit.

It catches the assailant in the throat, directly beneath the chin. Reeling back, spitting red onto the pure white snow. Stumbling, he gasps, choking on his own life's blood. A second arrow finds his chest with a dull thud. His eyes go wide, but he no longer sees. He tries to cry out, but can find no voice. He hears nothing. And in the twilight of his diminishing existence, a dull orange glow appears. Flames, dancing in the dark.

The Ranger lowers his weapon. He moves over to the corpse, and places his foot on the dead mans face, grasps the shaft of his first arrow, and pulls it free with an accompanying spurt of blood. He feels the mans nose break with a crack under his weight. He shifts his boot to the mans chest, and pulls free the second arrow. Kneeling, he checks the body for anything useful. Some old dried meat in his belt pouch, a dagger, a few gold coins, and the sword. He stuffs what he can carry into his pack, and slips the dagger into his boot.

"Not a bad start to the day.", he remarks to himself out loud.

Rising, he looks off into the mountains that lay to the north. In his mind, a dull flicker of fire, like the light of a candle. Something is there. Something he must find. He closes his eyes, and listens to the beating of his own heart, the whistle of the wind through the grove of trees. The cold wind blows his dark hair around his face. What could it be? What was calling him, driving him into those mountains, compelling him to leave his old life behind him, the warm winds and comforting shade of his forest. Whatever it was, he intended to find out.

Chapter 1

Treking through the snow had never been The Rangers forte. He had never cared for the cold. As far back as he could remember, he had roamed the woods and fields of Hyborias more temperate regions. Harsh winters were meant to be spent in taverns and bawdy houses, inns and brothels. He loved the land and the creatures that roamed it, but he had no love for this damned wind and driving snow. "I don't know how those damn fool Cimmerians do it." he thought to himself. "This place isnt fit for beasts, let alone men." And he wasn't entirely wrong. But he did confess to himself, that the people who called this place home were a tough, rugged sort; grown tall and strong by Natures harsh punishment. Broad chested, well suited to the cold and the hardships that came with it. He, however, was not. A tall, muscular man, but not large. Lean, with years of wear and toil showing in the wrinkles around his eyes. His jet black hair braided tightly from brow to behind his right ear to keep it clear of his bow string, the rest blew free in the wind. Though, even if he was no longer in the prime of his life, his eyes were still as sharp as an eagles, his hearing keen, and he was certainly still fast. Faster than most men. Hell, faster than most animals when the situation called for it. But none of this was a shelter from the piercing wind, seeming to blow right through his lean frame, down to his very bones.

The encounter with the bandit that morning had left him in a fine mood. He was pleased with the fact that the cold and restless sleep didnt seem to affect his ability to kill. He had worried that the bitter chill would tighten his muscles, and restrict his movement, but so far he seemed no worse for the wear. Which was damn good, considering his reflexes and speed were his finest defensive tools. And he expected he would need them soon. Bandits in places like this didn't work alone, he knew, and when his cohorts found the frozen corpse The Ranger had left in the snow, they would begin to hunt him down. He grinned, a sly, devilish grin at the thought of a whole pack of brigands thirsting for his blood. He made a mental note of his equipment. Twenty-five arrows, one dagger, one long sword, one hatchet, one short sword, bow, hands. He felt confident that he was equipped to handle any challenge. Who knows, maybe he would get lucky and one of his potential killers would be wearing some leathers that would fit him. He would make a note of it before dispatching them, should they come, and ensure that no holes were put into any clothing he may be able to make use of.

The sun was already beginning to sink to the horizon, it would be too cold to go on once the night came on. He made for an outcrop of rocks, hoping to seek shelter from the wind, and hide himself as best he could, until morning. Tomorrow would bring new challenges, he was sure.

He hoped the bandits could follow his tracks in the snow.

Chapter 2


Ruby red flames danced before a star speckled night sky. Hypnotizing and mysterious, they snaked in and out of cryptic patterns, as if they conveyed a message as yet not understood. As they danced, they begin to form a circle, and when the last gap in the ring had been filled, its centered erupted into a raging inferno. From the flames a figure began to take form, writhing with a life all its own. Soon, it took the shape of a woman, clad in silver silk, beautiful with hair as red as the flames from which she was born. Skin like freshly blossomed lilies, she danced among the ever flickering light. Her eyes were emerald green, with a calm like the sea after a storm, beckoning, tempting him into the fire.

The Rangers eyes opened slowly, and adjusted to the sun light reflecting off the frosted tundra. He brushed the frozen breath from his goatee, and raised himself up on his elbows, peering from around the rocks.

"Who is she?" he wondered.

He pulled himself upright and began to gather his things. Packing away his bed roll, he remembered what caused him to take shelter in the rocks. Bandits. And a lot of them he thought, and half hoped. Making haste with the rest of his belongings, he strung his bow and flipped the leather strap that held his sword in its scabbard loose of its catch. Today would not be a day of idle travel, he was certain. Given a full day and night to discover his handiwork, he imagined his pursuers would be nipping at his heels in no time. He surveyed his surroundings. Roughly 2 miles to the north, north east, he could see the edge of a forest. "Perfect." He began to make his way to its edge, contemplating how to best welcome his soon-to-arrive guests. His steps were heavy, and deliberate. He made his trail obvious, easy to follow, and unmistakable. He drug his feet, and stomped down deep into the snow.

An hour and a half of his heavy steps carried him to the forests edge. The evergreens bent with the weight of ice and snow. This would be ideal, he knew, and he set about his plans. He hewed a long, sturdy branch from a near by tree, and split the end with his hatchet. He removed the dagger from his boot and fit the handle into the end of the split pole, and secured it there with a length of cord from his pack. It was a crude weapon, but of more use than a dagger, to be sure. Should any of his assailants come on horse back, or worse, he would need something capable of reaching them, if they made it safely past his long bow that is. Next, he set about constructing a few nasty surprises for his friends. He fashioned a score of stakes from short branches, and found several long, and pliable branches, to which he tied five stakes apiece. Securing the non lethal end to a tree, roughly waist high, he bent it back until it would scarcely bend any further, confident it would be propelled forward with enough force to skewer a man in his tracks. He then tied it off to a stake he drove into the ground, and repeated the process on the tree directly across from it at the forests edge.

"Quite the welcome." he mused.

The other stakes he took to the edge of the wood, and set to burying their blunt ends into the ground, leaving enough of the edges poking up from the ground to cripple a horse or man who was foolish enough to not watch where he was going. He then recovered these with snow, and smoothed it down flat so that it would appear to anyone not on their sharpest to be undisturbed, freshly fallen snow. He planted these all around his tracks leading into the woods, sure that any who came looking for him would follow them directly into his nasty little welcoming gifts.

When his work was done, he went into the wood to scavenge up a meal. A snow hare chanced to catch his eye, and quickly found itself impaled on the end of an arrow. He made a low cooking fire after clearing away a patch of snow, and prepared and ate his meal, the first substantial meal he had eaten in four days. The warm flesh felt like heaven in his mostly empty gut, and he could feel a strength returning to him that he hadn't felt the morning before when he killed the man who attempted to sneak up on him as he slept. He knew he would be well prepared for whatever came his way. And soon enough, something did in fact, come. As he finished dousing the fire, he heard the faint sound of men speaking in raised voices. He flew to the forests edge, and peered out into the frozen wastes. There, near the rocks where he had camped the night before, were a group of distant figures. At two miles, his sharp eyes had difficultly picking out their number, but they were at least a dozen, maybe half as many more. The milled around the stones a moment, then, with a muffled shout he couldn't make out, they all started in his direction. They had spotted his tracks, exactly as he had hoped they would.

He was calm. He had an hour, at least, to steel himself for the battle. He removed an old wet stone from his pack, and drew his long, well used sword from his sheath. He sat on a fallen log and began to slowly, and deliberately sharpen the blade.

"A dozen men," he began to reason,"and twenty-five arrows. I could certainly kill them all before they made it to the tree line, but then all this work would have been in vain. Certainly no use to waste a well laid trap." He smiled in spite of himself, he could feel the lust for battle building inside himself. "No, no I think I will let half of their number make it at least to the woods edge."

He threw his cloak back over his shoulders as he stood, and slid his long, sharpened blade into its scabbard. He moved to the forests edge to check on the progress of his company. They were moving faster than he had anticipated, in the half hour he had taken to ready his blade, they had crossed more than half the distance. "Shame none of them are on horse, I could have certainly made use of one." he mused. He pulled an arrow from his quiver, and strolled casually to the tree line. He propped himself up against a tree trunk, and waited. He could see his hunters picking up their pace. He assumed they had spotted him, which was the desired outcome. They closed the half a mile quickly, and were soon nearing what he guessed was around three hundred yards out from the tree line. "That should be close enough." he remarked out loud.

He walked 10 paces out from the forests edge. He took a deep breath as he fitted his arrow onto the bowstring. He held up his hands, left holding the bow, and right holding the arrow at the string, and slowly he lowered his left as he pulled the bow to its full draw. He looked down the shaft of the arrow, cold blue eye taking in the group of targets marching steadily in his direction. He leaned back, tipping his bow up. Three hundred yards.

*Twang!*

The arrow leaps from the bow with a will. His eyes followed its arc up towards the mid-day sun. It climbed, and climbed, and when it could climb no more, it began to angle down, towards the earth, towards its target. The Ranger grinned. The arrow found its mark with enough force to throw its unlucky host to the ground.

The company halted, bewildered by what they perceived to be impossible. A grizzled man at the head of the group looked towards the tree line, to the man who had just scored a perfect hit from what had to be more than two hundred yards away. He drew a wicked looking blade from the scabbard at his waist, and as if on cue fourteen more weapons were drawn. With a scream of rage, the band charged forward.

The Ranger pulled another arrow from his quiver, and quickly readied his bow. He inhaled a deep, cold breath.

Two hundred and fifty yards. He waited.

Two hundred yards. Still, he waited.

One hundred and fifty yards. The bow string slammed forward, the arrow left the weapon with a vengeance. It whistled in the bitter cold air as it made its way towards the crew of ragged brigands. With no delay, it found itself slithering into the eye socket of a man, wearing leather. Gore spewed forth from the pierced eye as the man fell to the ground, howling with agony.

"He looks to be about my size.", remarked the Ranger.