The False Moon War. Chapter 5

to Title and Contents
to Chapter 4

Chapter 5.  The Pursuit

First there was nothing.  Nothing but an eternity of cold darkness.  Then a clear golden light.  With the light came warmth, and with the warmth, awareness.  With awareness came a sensation which at first seemed remote, but became more and more urgent and proximate.  The sensation was a sound.  A stricken, keening wail.  As Bob became more aware, he realized that the sound had meaning.  The sound had words.

"Waaa-aa-aaah!  Brain Freeze!  Brain Freeze!  Waaaaah!"

Bob snapped to full alertness.  With his vision restored he could perceive that the sound was coming from Joe.  Joe was kneeling clutching his head.  The scene was bathed in golden light, but Bob could not determine the source of the glow.  Bob found that he had a voice.

"Shut up, Joe."  Bob considered the words he had spoken.  They were good words.  He tried them again, louder.  "Shut up, Joe!"

The wail subsided to a whimper.

"All back to normal!" reassured a deep rumbling voice.  An enormous, four fingered hand reached down and set Joe on his wobbly feet.

Bob shielded his lidless eyes.  Joe's giant benefactor was bedecked with all manner of gold ornamentation from crest to scaly feet.  Every facet reflected flashes of light which were brighter than the noon day sun.

"Mahtis?" Bob enquired.

The kroxigor's massive face split into a toothy grin.  "Bob is okay, too!"

"Great! I'll just....give me a second...."

Bob tried to turn to see the other speaker but he was blinded again by the light streaming from that direction.  Moments later the radiance faded to a warm glow which Bob saw emanated from a weird contraption which was strapped to the rocklike hide of a towering bastiladon.

"What is happening?"  Bob implored.

"Good girl, Bessie!"  Rychek clambered down and gave the armoured dinosaur a scratch between her head and thoracic plates.  The beast snuffled in pleasure and nuzzled the little skink affectionately, knocking him flying.

A bastiladon of Lustria is as heavily armoured as a rock.  It is also as stubborn as a rock.  It looks like a cross between a tortoise, a lizard and a rock.  Its tail is tipped with a rock-like knob of rocky scales, which it will happily apply to friend or foe alike.  Generally the only two safe places to be are far away, or on its back.

Bessie was a bastiladon of Los'tmabo'tl.  She was unusually sweet natured, and had an appreciation of fine music.  With the Spawning of Bob, anything is possible.

Rychek explained the situation to Bob and Joe.  "The Legions of Los'tmabo'tl are frozen.  Everything is covered in ice for a league in every direction."

"Why aren't you and Mahtis frozen too?"  Joe asked.

The kroxigor beamed at Bessie,  "Bessie found us.  Good girl!"  The monster whiffled at the sound of her name.

"Bessie slipped her halter in the monster pits and found us.  She likes Mahtis because he gives her treats when the Beast Master Chief isn't watching.  She had the solar engine on her back and it thawed us out."

"The solo what?" puzzled Bob.

"Climb up and see.  Steady Bessie!"  Rychek led the pair of saurus up for a tour of Bessie's enormous back.  Secured to her back were a series of rails surmounted by wood decking.  The howdah was not strapped about her girth.  Rather, the rails were anchored with metal spikes which were driven directly into her rocky armoured plates.

At the centre of the platform was the Solar Engine.  Its sturdy frame was plated in gold.  Icons representing the sun-aspected Old One, Chotec, covered the stanchions at each corner.  The superstructure was comprised of four glistening triangular mirrors.  Closer inspection revealed no blemish or flaw upon the polished white metal, despite the fact that this device of the Old Ones had existed for at least the eight thousand years.

The centre piece of the apparatus was a cube of some opaque material.  The forward surface emitted a warm yellow glow.  The other five planes were dim.  It was held in place by five metal claws.

Below the front most reflector was a crystal lens fitted into a rotating gimbal.  This allowed the lens to be pivoted around any axis to focus anywhere within the device's forward arc.

On the rear panel was the imprint of a curious hand with five fingers.  "When you put your hand there, the square glows brighter and hotter.  The curved crystal catches the glow and directs it.  That's how we warmed you up."

Bob carefully tallied his own digits, then got Joe to check his calculations.  "That's weird.  Five fingers.  What use is five fingers?"

Joe considered.  "If you had five, you could grip your weapon with the usual four, and use the centre one for signalling."

Bob scoffed, "Don't be stupid.  Four fingers is better."

"Five fingers!"

"Four!"

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Five!"

"Four!"

"Shut up both of you!  We need to chase the ogres!"

"Wha....ogres?"

"The ogres have kidnapped Slann Lord Taisteslaikch'ken.  We weren't fully thawed when they dragged his palanquin out of the city."

"He's old enough to look after himself," sniggered Joe.  He was remembering the Slann's twenty thousandth birthday celebration last solar cycle, which he and Bob had ruined by polarizing the entire city in the catastrophic 'savoury versus sweet' party food debate.

"He can't.  He's sleeping."  Mahtis intoned.

"We must rescue him!"  Rychek implored.

"We are on picket duty.  We are meant to stop enemies getting in.  These ones are clearly going out.  Someone else's problem I'm afraid"  Bob folded his arms resolutely.

"They are taking him away!  We need to get after them."

"I'm sorry, I agree with Bob here..." Joe began.

"So you agree with me.  Four fingers is better!"  Bob smirked.

Joe signalled to him with an imaginary middle finger and continued, "....we cannot abandon our post.  Again."  He rubbed his scaly backside, the memory of the most recent kick he had received from his C.O. brought tears to his lidless eyes.

"So there is no way that I can convince you to give chase?  They are abducting our exalted lord, you know."  Rychek had a devious smile on his face.

"No, sorry.  Under no circumstance will we abandon our standing orders."  Bob rested his hand weapon on his shoulder and turned away.

"They are...FLEEING...with our Slann,"  Rychek murmured.

Bob stiffened.  "What?"

Mahtis brayed with rage, "They flee?"

"We must pursue!"  Joe screeched and sprinted into the jungle brandishing his spear, closely followed by Bob and the mighty Mahtis.

Rychek allowed himself a self indulgent smirk.

"Come on, Bessie."  He led the lumbering beast in their wake.

On the after deck of his vessel, Welhung Thunderloin muttered an obscenity and picked a feathered sting from his nose.  It was a parting gift from the accursed Lustrian bees.

They had renewed their attack on the tyrant as soon as the ogre band had moved out of the zone of ice surrounding the temple city.  The harassment had continued for the entire trek through the jungle, and ceased only when he had escaped to the safety of his ship.

Unseen by all, within the fringe of the jungle, D’an, the most skillful of Lustrian chameleon skinks muttered an obscenity and placed another poisoned dart into his blow pipe.  The previous dart had been a parting gift to the accursed ogre barbarian.

D'an had renewed his attack on the tyrant as soon as the ogre band had moved out of the zone of ice surrounding the temple city.  The harassment had continued for the entire trek through the jungle, and ceased only when the warm blooded brute had escaped to the safety of his ship.

An unfortunate juvenile terradon flapped lazily overhead.  There was a high pitched buzz, then the saurian flyer emitted a startled croak and fell dead from the sky.  With his test completed, D’an cursed again.

There was no problem with his legendary marksmanship, nor with the jungle poisons he had lovingly concocted.  The boorish oaf must have developed immunity to poison from his enforced diet of venomous jungle reptiles.

D’an broke his blow pipe over his knee and faded into the mottled shade.  His once trusted weapon had betrayed him.  If he was to protect his beloved homeland he would need to change his doctrine of warfare.  He would learn from his foes and adapt.  In the future there would be no failure, or mercy.

With a gleam of murderous hate in his eyes, he brandished a pair of bamboo sticks and vanished back into the jungle.

“ ‘Oist sail!  Ship oars, you ‘orrible lumps of porridge!”

After the torment of the gloomy jungle, Welhung could feel the life flowing back into him now that his feet were firmly planted on the deck his beloved ship.  Here he was the master.  And there were no bees.

The operation to refloat the Maw’s Jaws had been performed with practiced ease.  She had then been rowed out beyond the lee of the cape to find a south easterly breeze.

Once the billowing sails were reefed, the ship heeled well to port and she gathered way with the setting sun to her stern, and a pair of full moons on her starboard bow.

“Oi!  Rodekhil!  Lash down the frog.  I don’t want ‘im sliding all over the deck in a swell”

“Aye aye, Chief!”  Rodekhil waved a hand in reply.

“What?  What in Lunch’s name is that?”

Rodekhil started in surprise and looked at his clenched fist.  In it was grasped something that resembled a limp blue lettuce leaf, except for the baleful golden eyes which glared back at him.

Welhung prodded it with a meaty finger, and recoiled when arms and legs twitched fitfully. 

With a glimmer of recognition he said, “That’s one of them skinky priest things from the temple.  Why the ‘ell is it ‘ere?”

“Oh, yaa, right,” Rodekhil remembered.  “Well, when you said, 'Get the Chef out of my way' I thought to myself, since I’d eaten Cookie, maybe a new Chef would come in ‘andy!”

“Maw give Buttered Scones!  I said, 'Get the chaff out of my way,' you melon!”  Welhung leaned in close to inspect the lizardman.  The ogre was so near that the smell of his rancid breath made the little priest’s stomach churn.

“ ‘Ave you been carrying ‘im ‘alfway across Lustria?”

Rodekhil nodded.

The tyrant locked Caneghem’s flashing eyes.  “ ‘E’d better be able to cook…..”

The headlong pursuit by the predatory fighters did not last long.  The further the trio strayed from the warmth of the solar engine, the slower they became.  One by one they were overhauled by the plodding bastiladon.  One by one they sheepishly climbed onto the howdah.

It took no special skill to track the ogre party.  They had crushed a wide avenue through the forest understory with their ironbound boots and iron hooped wheels.  Here and there would be a cracked bone with the marrow sucked out, or a scrap of grey fur, but no sign of the fate of the slann could be found. The ogres had at least two days lead, but Bessie could continue her inexorable pace day and night, pausing only to crunch up the large tasty flowers which were scattered in the gloom.

The heroes passed the time discussing the finer points of the tactical disposition and effectiveness of the many units deployed by the Armies of Lustria.

“Razordons!”

“Salamanders!”

“Razordons!”

“Salamanders!”

“Razordons!”

“Salamanders!”

“Shut up you two !  Don’t make me come back there!”

After what seemed like an intolerably long time, Bessie burst through the curtain of trees and stood upon a wide strand near an abandoned fortified camp.  Off shore they heard the boom of sails filling with wind and saw a squat and ugly barge slide towards the horizon.  The Slann was slipping out of their reach.

Upon the howdah Bob howled in impotent rage and flung his hand weapon towards the retreating vessel.  This was a token gesture considering the range and his total lack of ballistic skill.  Rychek and Joe cursed and swore.  Beneath them, Bessie absorbed the ill temper of her riders and became agitated.

Only Mahtis kept his composure.  He began to remove the golden bracelets, torques and other adornments which he was wearing.  “Swim time!”

Joe looked at him suspiciously, “I don’t swim.”

“I only dog paddle,” Bob pantomimed an ineffectual stroke with his hands.

“How did you two get out of the spawning pool?”  Rychek wondered aloud.  “Anyway, Bessie is not aquatic.  There is nothing we can do.”

“Rats!” blurted Bob. 

Bessie thudded her club-like tail on the ground to show her empathy with her upset pasengers.

Clan Catarrh was ascendant.  Soon it would reach its zenith and eclipse even the great Clan Skryre in terms of power and warp-token wealth.  Its warlord would have a permanent place on the secretive Council of Thirteen, not as first among equals, but as supreme Lord of all Rat-kind.  He would be envied, feared and worshipped in equal measure.

This was the kind of irrational belief that most people would be put away for having.  For a long, long time.

But Under Lord Pickit Raw was not most people.  Although he had wisely abandoned his plans for the conquest of Lustria, he did not want to slink back to the skaven haunts of the Old World without a single victory.

To this end he led his few faithful remaining rats from their shallow tunnel beneath the sand.  The beast and her crew had their attention fixed out to sea.  In a few more seconds he would plunge the warpstone Sword of Abstinence through the back of the lizard-ogre-thing.

He had learnt from bitter experience that appearing in front of his enemies put them at an unfair advantage.  Far better to have a fair fight with he and his cutthroats approaching from the rear.  Much safer this way.

Suddenly one of the proposed victims shouted, “Rats!”

“Wee-ee are reevea-ee-eeled!  Flee-…..” Pickit was cut off in the middle of his warning by a bony lump the size of a cart horse which was propelled like a thunderous bludgeon by eighteen tons of agitated bastiladon.

First there was nothing but darkness.  Then a clear golden light.  With the light came awareness.  With awareness came a sensation which at first seemed remote, but became more and more urgent and proximate.  The sensation was a sound.  A stricken, keening wail.  As Bob became more aware, he realized that the sound had meaning.  The sound had words.

"Waaa-aa-aaah!  My tail!  My tail!  Waaaaah!"

Bob snapped to full alertness.  He was in an echoing tunnel, illuminated by a beam of light which shone like a lance from the back of a massive beast.   The tunnel sloped away as far as the light would carry.  Bob found that he had a voice.

"Shut up, Joe."  Bob considered the words he had spoken.  They were good words.  He tried them again, louder.  "Shut up, Joe!"

The wail subsided to a whimper.

"All back to normal!" reassured a deep rumbling voice.  An enormous, four fingered hand reached down and set Joe on his wobbly feet. 

"Mahtis?" Bob enquired. “What just happened?”

The kroxigor's massive face split into a toothy grin.  "Bob is okay, too!"

“The roof of this tunnel collapsed and we fell in when Bessie thumped her tail,” Rychek explained.  “We can’t get back up, but the tunnel goes the same way as the ship.  It must come out somewhere.  We can still rescue Taisteslaikch’ken!”

“I can’t rescue anyone.  I’ve dropped my hand weapon.” Bob moaned

Joe sniggered at him,  "Spears are better," he mouthed.

“Why not use this hand weapon?”  Mahtis picked up an odd looking sword from beside a moist pile of rags and grey fur.

“That will have to do!  Now climb on!”  Rychek was already scrambling back onto the howdah.  Bessie grumbled impatiently as the others resumed their places on her back.  When they were safely aboard she continued her dogged march.

“You know, Joe, just before the tunnel collapse, there was a squeaking sound.”

“No there wasn’t.”

“Yes, there was.”

“Wasn’t!”

“Was!”

“Wasn’t!”

“Was!”

to Chapter 6:  The Maw's Jaws, coming soon.

Spawning of Bob, Casket of the Cold Ones: Army Lists and Troop Types

There are a bewildering array of options to understand when selecting troops for your army of Lizardmen. Funny things happen when you just throw your troops onto the battle field without considering the need for specialized equipment, specific training and the best uses for each troop type.  Don't become the comic relief at your next Warhammer battle.

This is the third of Spawning of Bob's helpful guides to becoming a better Warhammer General.

Perhaps the most basic decision to be made is whether to take command groups with your units.

For some, the choice to field a champion happens almost by default.

A standard bearer is nice, but to maximise value for their points cost they should carry a magic standard which can confer special abilities for the whole unit.

A musician provides advantages for units wishing to swiftly reform, or to rally from flight.  A word of caution, however:  If the enemy unit also has a musician in close combat, you must consider your own performer's ability to neutralize or overpower his (or her - with Lizardmen who knows?) counterpart.

A single unit may be presented with options to upgrade weapons, abilities or equipment.  Consider your unit's (and your opponent's) strengths and weaknesses before choosing from these.  They are often very situational, and you may find your units in deep water if they are used outside their usual scope or environment.

Of course, many units bring special rules or abilities to the table.  A good general will prudently use troops suited to laying siege, or to the defense of an obstacle, to turn the tide of battle.

A single flying unit can give the crucial element of surprise.

Some units (indeed some whole armies) can reduce the howling winds of magic to a whisper.

A Lizardmen general should not need reminding that small expendable units of skinks (sometimes referred to as "chaff") can have an invaluable role in redirecting the enemy's more threatening or higher value units.

The last element to good army selection is a detailed knowledge of your enemy.  Direct purchase of your opponent's army book from GW is, lets face it, prohibitively expensive, but there are equally satisfactory and less costly ways to get the tactical information you need online.

Using a single example from the Orcs and Goblins (O&G) army book, you can see how particular units combined with a simple warmachine, have been used effectively the world over to root out enemies from behind obstacles.

The same basic unit of cave squigs, with an upgrade to give the "Ambushers" deployment special rule suddenly becomes a sinister threat to your army, and indeed the whole of Lizardmen society.

I hope that this advice will make you a superior general, and that your certain victories will gloriously pave the way to the fulfillment of the Old Ones' inscrutable purposes.

In case they don't, check this site soon for the next of Spawning of Bob's tutorials, "Increasing the Impact of your Razordon and Salamander Hunting Packs"  and its companion guide "First Aid for Skinks - Seconds Count"

The False Moon War: Chapter 4

to Title and Contents
to Chapter 3

Chapter 4.  The Temple City

It was the first full of the Chaos Moon since the ogres had ventured into the jungle.  Even though it was invisible to them, above the tree canopy, the ogres felt it in their churning stomachs.

This was the closest Morrslieb had ever approached the earth.  The gravitational and magical tides which accompanied this event were threatening to tear apart the vortex of the Great Ritual over Ulthuan.  Already the laminar rotation of the magical tornado was breaking into swirls and eddies.  Before long the system would become chaotic.  In that event, this world itself would become Chaotic very soon after.

The Slann were not yet prepared to enact Tecciztec's plan to assail the Chaos moon.  To preserve the great vortex, the energy drain of the geomantic web was increased until the whole system was thrumming like the strings of a musical instrument.  Unprecedented amounts of magical, celestial and thermal power was tapped.  Each temple city and its environs were plunged into a local ice age.

The Slann streamed the greater yield of geomantic power into the Great Ritual.  This increased its rate of spin and stabilized the vortex.

This full moon crisis was averted, but what of the next, and the one after that?  As the Chaos moon spiralled lower and lower, the Slann would eventually find the limits of the power they had at their disposal.

The Skaven of the Under Empire were reputed to be without number.  That reputation had taken a blow in recent weeks.

Clan Catarrh, under the charismatic leadership of its Under Lord, Pickit Raw, had gone from being an insignificant vassal house to being a somewhat smaller insignificant vassal house. 

Infiltration, surprise attacks from without, and harassment had all proven to be of limited effectiveness against the ogre throng.  The tactic of disguising a troop of skaven assassins as jungle fruits to wait in ambush had been particularly ill advised.

It was testament to Pickit Raw's strength of resolve, or possibly lack of imagination, that his swarm had shadowed the ogres this far into the interior.

"Li-i-i izard-Things?  Not Ogre-Things?" 

Pickit Raw's gutter runner spy grinned,  "And only-ee-ee two of them, Under-Lord!"

The leader's face split into an evil grin, "Something we-ee-ee can defea-ee-eet?  Gather the swarm.  Pre-ee-eepare for a frontal assault!"

Ogres don't creep well.  Nor do they sneak or skulk.  Despite this Welhung Thunderloin and his lieutenant, Rodekhil Offaleater managed to reconnoitre the Lizardmen bastion unmolested.  They had observed two sentries on the rampart keeping a silent vigil over the jungle.  There was no other sign of life.

"Why 'ave we only seen two sentries?  An outpost this size should 'ave a garrison."  Welhung scratched his lumpy nose.  This new arctic chill was of no concern to the mountain dwelling ogre.  It seemed to have driven off the swarms of invisible bees which had been tormenting him.

"Maybe the sentries are really annoying," shrugged Rodekhil, "Anyways, we should just level the thing with round-shot.  Garrisons don't matter if they been blasted."

Welhung appraised the field.  "Naa, we can't bring the iron blaster cannons to bear with these trees so close.  It'll 'ave to be a frontal assault."

Rodekhil unlimbered his pair of iron falchions.  "Should we bring the rest of the lads?"

The Ogres formed their phalanx in plain sight, just out of bow shot from the redoubt.

"Those lizards must 'ave balls.  They ain't even blinked!"  Rodekhil observed.

Argsplat snorted with mirth, "Balls?  Lizards ain’t got none!"

Welhung scrutinized his iron gut captain.  "Wasn't you taller?"

"Well, yaa, Chief."  Argsplat glanced down at the heavily bandaged stumps where his feet and lower legs should have been.

"What 'appened?  Did one of the acid flowers get you?"

"Naa, Chief.  You said I should set my socks afire to keep them bities away.  Like my dam said."

"Ya should've taken the socks off first, ya stupid loaf!"

"Aaah."  Argsplat grimaced.  "I didn't think of that."

The Ogre assault line had been formed.  It was an intimidating wall of muscle and iron.  Still the pair of sentries did not quail.

"Bellower.  Do the ‘honours."  (Silent “H”s do not translate easily into the ogre dialect).

With a flabby salute to his general, the ogre sergeant major turned to release the full power of his formidable vocal cords.  "Righ' you 'orrible slugs!  Step lively on the left!  No!  The other left!  And…. march! Keep time, keep time!  Left ,two, three, other left, two, three!"

The bellower called the rhythm of the charge, gradually increasing the tempo until the line was rolling forward like a flabby avalanche.

Eighty yards separated the ogres from the outpost when suddenly the front lines faltered.  The ground before them had burst open.  A seething swarm of rat men had leapt upon the sward with their filth caked weapons at the ready.  They were facing away from the ogres.

The momentum of the ogre charge could not be checked.  Rank after rank of the massive warriors piled up and eventually spilled over the Skaven battalion.  The impact alone was enough to paste the numerically superior rodents into the ground.

From the battlements, two saurus warriors, one armed with a hand weapon, the other with a spear, and both frozen solid, bore mute witness to the impromptu victory feast that followed.

The ogres entered the city unopposed, but they did not abandon caution, nor discipline, while there remained any risk of ambush.

" 'eres another one of the statues, like the two in the outpost," Rodekhil observed,  "This one ain’t very impressive."

It looked like a statue of a wizened, shortsighted, crippled, stooped, toothless, reptilian god.  The efficient looking stone axe it bore was being used as an improvised crutch.  Its outstretched hand was reaching towards a glowing chamber at the head of a steep and narrow stair which clung to the precipitous side of the largest pyramid.

Welhung raised his mace as if to mimic the lizardman's gesture.  "Our prize is up there."

In the star chamber at the pinnacle of the Great Pyramid, a huge golden brazier cast a merry glow over an inert Slann Lord, a squad of six Temple Guardians and four worried skink priests.

Lord Taisteslaikch'ken appeared to be slumbering on his magical throne.

Since the Coming of Chaos, no Slann Mage Priest had risked their purity by setting foot on the Chaos tainted earth.  Instead they were carried on ornate palanquins.  In the sedentary millennia which followed, the undefiled Slann became morbidly obese.  The corpulent amphibians grew to rival the size of ogres.

It is unclear when (somewhere between 5th and 6th edition?) it occurred to the Mage Priests that using a scrap of their power to levitate the palanquins would save some effort for their attendants who had previously carried them around.  What is clear is that the Temple Guardians from that time hence had fewer work related back injury claims.

“Stone the crows!  That's the last of the wooden effigies!"  Dinki'dai,  the ruggedly handsome Australustrian priest, searched for more fuel for the brazier.  "When that burns down we'll need to chuck on some scrolls from the casket,” he declared.

There had been no recent spawnings of priests in Los’tmabo’tl, thus Taisteslaikch’ken’s four skink priest attendants were drawn from all corners of Lustria.

"Telmiwai, keep watch.”  The saurus champion who spoke was Tanqgoditzafrid’ai, Revered Guardian and leader of this unit of six Temple Guard.  As his brother guardian moved to comply, there was a worried chirp from the edge of the platform atop the highest pyramid of Los'tmabo'tl.

“Mon Dieu, there is activité down below!”  Animaux, the little Gallustrian priest was peeking over the edge.

Caneghem joined him.  “Well, that’s just great,” he moaned.  The Texustrian skink priest stood a hand taller than his companions.  Everything is bigger in the Lone-Star Province.

One of the guardians keeping watch called another spawn brother, “Aidontloqmundi, the city is breached.  Inform the Revered Guardian.”

“Ah noo!  We’re heaps breached!” wailed Tuatara.

This last priest was an émigré from the Baabed Sheepidon infested shaky isles of New Zealustria.

These insignificant islands, far to the south east are known for volcanic boiling mud.  New Zealustria is so isolated from the Lustrian mainstream that the inhabitants have formed what might be considered a “special” relationship with their Sheepidon flocks.

A party of ogres was visible crossing the plaza at the foot of the pyramid.  The largest of their number raised an iron bound mace and gestured toward the apex.

“We’re breached as, Bro!”

The ogres began to mount the vertiginous eternity stair. 

“You’ve got ’em sorted, hey mate?”  Dinki'dai asked Aidont’loqmundi.

“The cold slows our movements, but with the Old Ones' blessing, and your magical support, we will prevail.”

“Bugger.  We’re flat out like a lizard drinking channelling the winds, mate.  The flaming geomantic web is sucking them up like there’s no tomorrow.”

“Then we shall fail.”

“Nah mate,” the Australustrian was also quicker of wit than his skink brethren.  “This’ll bloody sort ‘em out!”

Dinki’dai hurled himself at a colossal obsidian sculpture in the shape of a great serpent.  “What about your arms, fellas?  Are they just painted on?”

Two of the guardians joined the effort and, together, the three toppled the statue.  It shattered on the eternity stair and showered the ogres below with dagger like shards.  Many stricken ogres were swept from the stair, but too many continued their relentless ascent.

“Ha!  Take that, ya drongos!” laughed Dinki’dai.

“And thus!”  chortled Tuatara, as he upended the brazier down the stair.

“No!  Ya boofhead…..”  but it was too late.  The embers showered the ogres and dislodged a few more, but the loss of their only source of warmth would soon cripple the cold blooded defenders.

Tanqgod’itzafrid’ai felt frost begin creeping into his bones.  He shook his bone helmeted head.

“We don’t have long before the cold will defeat us,” he murmured.  Then his voice rose in a rousing crescendo and he addressed his five subordinates, “Telmiwai, Aidont’loqmundi, Iwanashu’u, Ooteh’hoel, Daidoun!  We will do our duty!” 

Uniting their voices in a wordless roar, his guardians joined their captain in a headlong charge down the eternity stair.  The Temple Guard jabbed and swung their halberds and held their own, with the advantage of higher ground.  But the mass of ogres pressed ever upwards.

“ ‘Ow can we ‘elp zem?”  Animaux was wringing his bony hands.

The heroic and charming Australustrian priest, Dinki’dai, had helped himself to a metal tube from the Casket of the Cold Ones which was kept for emergencies in the temple inner sanctum.  The tinny cylinder contained fermented, malted barley. The frothy amber liquid was close to freezing point.  “You beauty,” he purred, “perfect temperature."

Beside him, Tuatara rummaged in the Casket of the Old Ones which was the repository of the mystic treasures of the temple.

“Bro!” he exclaimed, “Thus’ll  guve thum a touch up!”

He brandished the Forbidden Rod.  This arcane item did not draw its magical power from the winds of magic, but rather from the life force of its wielder.

The NewZealustrian ran to the edge of the platform and spoke the word of command.  The hand that clutched the rod visibly shrivelled as the cursed artefact absorbed half a century of life from the reckless Kiwi.

“Fight your way through thus!” he shrieked as he began the gestures to release the most reliable spell he knew.

“No!  Not that one!” hollered Caneghem belatedly.

Tuatara released a blizzard of shards of ice from his fingertips and hurled them into the combat below.  The ogres cursed and shielded their eyes.  Their blows could not find their mark while they were thus blinded, but the effect on the Saurus Warriors of the Temple Guard was far more devastating.

Every last guardian was immobilized by the wave of arctic chill.  They were frozen into ice crusted avatars of snarling hate.

“Oh, merde!” breathed Animaux.

The Ogres paused and rubbed the ice crystals from their eyes before continuing their merciless ascent.

“You bloody moron!”  Dinki’dai advanced on Tuatara with his claws balled with rage.

“Ut’s OK Bro, I’ll turrify thum wuth my turrifying war dunce!”  The New Zealustrian priest began a ridiculous display of stomping and chest slapping.  “Ka matae! Ka matae! Ka ora! Ka ora...”

Dinki’dai grabbed Tuatara by the throat and squeezed until the New Zealustrian's eyes and tongue protruded.  “Mate.  Do you have any flamin’ idea how stupid you look?!”

Meanwhile Caneghem had also rifled the Casket of the Old Ones.  With a whoop of triumph he produced a small cask of the precious Texustrian votive oil.  This he cast down the stair to broach upon the head of the uppermost ogre.  He followed up with a golden lamp fashioned in the form of a fire salamander.  The ogre ignited spectacularly and plummeted from the side of the pyramid like a comet.

“Sacre Bleu!  What are you doing?  That oil is précieux!”  Animaux was aghast at the waste.

The Texustrian snorted.  “Where I come from we’ve got so much of this stuff, it comes out of the ground.”

“Bien.”  The Gallustrian shrugged.  Then he was struck by an idea.

He hurried to the open casket and returned with a priceless flask of the Potion of Ebullience.  He loosened the cork stopper with his scaly thumbs and spoke the incantation of activation:  “Moet et Chandon, soixante-neuf!”

With a loud report, like a pistol shot, the cork was propelled by a foaming jet of potion.  Another Ogre fell, clutching his stricken eye.

The other priests gaped at his wastefulness.

“We have so many cellars packed with zese bottles in Gallustria” he explained to justify his extravagance.

Without a word, the laconic Dinki’dai tightened his grip about Tuatara’s scrawny neck and hurled the NewZealustrian from the balcony.

“Nooooo Bro-o-o....."  Tuatara’s voice trailed away into nothing as he dislodged another ogre and continued the arc of his descent.

The others gaped at the Australustrian. 

“Please don’t tell me you weren’t expecting that.” 

The other two priests shrugged in acquiescence and joined Dinki’dai in forming a cordon about the dormant Slann.  They prepared to make their last stand.

The ogre vanguard had now scaled the stair and were menacing the eternity chamber.  With a clamour and an oath, Animaux and Dinki’dai launched themselves at the ogres, only to be swept callously aside by an iron clad mace.  This left the dismayed Caneghem as Taisteslaikch’ken’s last line of defence.

“Get the chaff out of my way!” growled the ogre commander.

“Okay, Chief!”  The last thing the skink priest saw was a fat leering face and a meaty hand grasping toward him with greedy fingers agape, like the teeth of the Great Maw itself.

to Chapter 5:  The Pursuit, coming soon.