The Coming of the Harpies (or, Daggerfall meets Rincewind) :)

                 by Linflas aka Dave Booth

Partus Lastus (ie threeus) - concluded from Issue 52

The blood ran cold in the veins of Stumpy.  His legs turned to
jelly, his head swam, and the rest of him was also a bit wobbly.
The warm wet widdle wound its weary way awound his wegs. Alone he
stood, against the army of harpies that had awwived (oh stop it
Linflas) to Castle Necromoghan.

In they flew, shrieking with collective bloodlust. Did I say that
Harpies were fond of human flesh?  Especially kebabs.  Today they
were looking forward to a barbecue, on the scale of the Huge
Chompathon of K'gnerk.  Whatever that was.

Meanwhile, Aloysius the Absolutely Timid shivered in the cellar of
the Broken Knuckle.  He had hoped that the attackers would all be
as dense as their compatriot, forgetting to draw in their wings
before negotiating the bar entrance.  Some hope.  Out of the
thirty or so that were approaching, there must be at least one
with the sense to do so.

By now, the noise that the attackers were making had woken several
of the Guards.  Truly, the racket would have aroused a sloth with
a dose of sleeping sickness and a bad case of petit-mal, so this
was no surprise.  The defenders of the Castle, to their credit,
had taken to the task with zeal.  If 'zeal' is listed in the
thesaurus as 'shit-bugger-what-the-heck-is-that?'

The odds were 30 plus harpies (with cutlery sets extended and
ready for action) against a dozen shaking Guards (with bits of
wood sporting a rusty iron spike on the end).

In they flew.  Blood, guts, gore, wiggling intestines, all were to
be observed in the furore that ensued.  Mostly the Guards'.

(The soundtrack of this melee is available on the Ronco LP 'Sounds
of the Slaughterhouse'.)

Still, some of the pikestaffs found their targets, and shish-Harpy
would later have been available on the menu at the Hungry Hobbit,
were a victory celebration be in order.  As it was, the apparent
victors were the airbound type.

And then! Forsooth, something had to happen, so this story could
continue. Fivesooth, so it did.

The gates of the Castle broke open, as if they had been smashed by
a battering ram.  It wasn't of course, because they hadn't yet
been invented.  But the right boot of a level 32 Daggerfall
character did just as well.

Through the gates strode the figure of the mighty Klonk, Avatar of
the kingdom of Splurge, and holder of Silliest Name in the
Principality award.  And runner-up in the contest for Killer of
the Awarder of Silly Name Awards.  Behind him was his trusty steed
Steed, towing a cart on which lots of red armour was piled, and
what looked like a ship in his pocket. Or maybe he was just
looking forward to seeing a serving wench.  In his hand (left, as
he was a Southpaw) he held a gleaming blade of daedric, which
crackled with magick.  He hadn't told anyone that the magick was a
Light spell, the effect wouldn't have been quite the same.

Slice! Dice! Rice! Other words ending in ice!  He made his way
through the assault, chopping the Harpies into neat cubes and
stockpiling them thoughtfully near the cookhouse entrance.

Stumpy, still alive as befits the minor hero of this tale, poked
at the remaining living attackers for all his worth.  This would
surely be worth an Order of Twangy Thing round the Gusset.

Al, on t'other hand, was worthy of naught but a good tot of brandy
and a long lie down.

"Good sport, eh sport?" called the en-daedric'd warrior.  Stumpy,
his confidence boosted, replied in the affirmative, though the
impact was marred, as his voice was breaking at the same time.
Soon the bloodbath was over.  Bloodbath? More like a blood
jacuzzi.  Sadly, several of the Guards had met their end at this
battle, but thankfully many survived.  As the noise subsided, the
remaining defenders paused to take in the full extent of the
carnage.  And to plan what to do with their performance-related
bonuses.

Amidst the mess, there was a flash of blue light, and through the
portal came the wizard Rearwind.  The mightiest Mage in all
Tamriel, allegedly.  No-one had been gutsy enough to find out if
it was true.

"Sorry I'm late folks, I had to see my old mate Lysandus.  Not
doing too good I'm afraid, he looks like Death."

He surveyed the landscape.  "Hmmm, another Harpy attack I see? You
did a good number in tonight. Never mind, they breed like flies
y'know, so there's no danger of them becoming extinct."

Al made his appearance from the tavern, flashing his dagger as if
to ward off unseen googlies.  Well you never know.

"Yer late on parade, missus!" called Klonk. "Mislaid your socks or
something?"

"Nobe, I wab jub looking for the Leader", said the man-with-a-
broken-jaw.

"Hmph.  Another substandard Guard."

Then, the landlord of the Broken Knuckle came to the scene.  "Well
done all!" he called to everyone still alive.  "The drinks are on
the house!" (Well, it *is* fiction.)

:THE END

Postscript : Wot happened next

Klonk received an Award of Merit in Dissecting Things, three
thousand gold from the grateful monarch of Necromoghan, and an
embarrassing rash from Wobbly Linda of the Broken Knuckle.

Stumpy got his coveted Order of a Twangy Thing, and his oats from
that really attractive young girl, if you ignore the braces.

Rearwind got bugger all, as he was late and did nothing worth
mentioning.

The Guards got a good feed the next day, and a night off.

Aloysius got a headache from too much free beer.

With that, good reader, farewell!

:REALLY THE END





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