Subject: D&D Cartoon On-Line Fan Club Newsletter #6, Part 3


And here?s the finale to Mike Bugg?s Curse of the Warduke!   On an additional
note, a hearty congratulations to Mr. Bugg, who was the winner of Lesley
Hickman's fan fiction contest on her page!  Way to go Mike! :)

Story Rating: PG-13

The Curse of Warduke
by Buggman (MdBugg@aol.com)

Author's Note:  This work, based on the Dungeons & Dragons cartoon show of the
mid '80s, is copyrighted by the author, 1997.  Permission is hereby given to
copy and distribute this work, so long as credit is given to the author.

Chapter 5:  The Death of the Warduke
        The defenders fell back from the gates of the Keep as frost formed on the
ancient oak banded with iron.  Wide enough for six men riding and fifty feet
tall, the foot-thick wood began to splinter with the first blow of the crude
battering ram that the hobgoblins had fashioned.  Bowmen on the walls tried to
shoot the invaders before they could breach the gates, but their arrows were
turned aside as if by an invisible dome.
        The Warduke shouted for them to employ the ram again and again as he sat on
his black stallion, his golden shield held high.  That shield, and the bright
sword that he carried in his other hand, were the only spots of bright color
on the man--the rest was covered in a dark cloak.  His eyes, shadowed in the
depths of the helmet, glowed like hot coals and his voice grated like steel on
stone as he shouted his commands above the noise of the battle.  Behind him
rode a woman dressed in garments redder than the blood about to be shed who
smiled in a twisted, half-mad sort of way.
        After the sixth blow, the gates gave way, the magically frozen wood
shattering like glass, and the hobgoblins swarmed in.  Defenders tried to
slaughter them through murder-holes in the gatehouse, but again, their spears
and arrows and hot oil were turned aside by an invisible field as the Warduke
rode through.  He stood under the murder-holes, protecting his troops, until
the last one had made it through.  Only then did he ride forth.
        The courtyard was a slaughterhouse.  All pretense of battle-formation or
strategy had given way to an endless dance of death.  The Warduke rode through
it all, unconcerned.  Battles were often so once the walls were breached.  It
was almost exactly like the end of the siege of Ulreth.  And Tamire.  Or any
number of other battles he had fought in over the last eight centuries.  In
any case, the general disorder was to his advantage, not the Bearers.  On
foot, each hobgoblin was worth three human soldiers, and there was no way to
mount a successful cavalry charge or arrow storm without killing more men than
hobgoblins.
        Twice he had to pause his journey to cut down some foolish human who
challenged him.  Both times, he made sure to leave them still breathing.  He
had sworn an oath--the first life his blade took would be the Archbishop's.
That was all that held him.  The only thing.

        "It's going to be a slaughterhouse in there," warned Reian.  "We'd be better
off waiting a bit longer -- let them finish softening each other up before we
move in."  The grey-haired and bearded warrior was dressed in a mail shirt
beneath his earth-colored tunic and stained green cloak, and wore a worn
broadsword at his hip.  His face was utterly calm and expressionless, the look
of a warrior who had made his peace with his God and was prepared for whatever
came.
        Hank wished he could say his own face looked half so calm.  The strain of the
last three weeks had taken their toll--he had grown gaunt from too many missed
meals; his eyes seemed sunken into his sockets and had taken on a haunted
look.  "We don't have a choice, Reian.  I don't dare wait any longer."
        Diana laid a hand on his shoulder, studying his drawn face with concern.
"You don't have to go, Reian.  You can wait here with your men until the
time's right.  It'd probably be better that way, as a matter of fact."  She
glanced over at Bobby, who stood at the very edge of the trees, as tense as a
hunting hound in sight of its target but held back by a leash.  A very thin
leash, frayed to the point of breaking.  Presto just looked miserable,
clutching his robes around him as if caught in a cold wind despite the spring
warmth.
        Reian scratched his beard thoughtfully.  "Perhaps."  He frowned to himself,
and then shook his head.  "But I've heard of you Young Ones.  They say that
you've defeated Venger himself many times in battle."  That was true, as far
as it went, but the tales always seemed to leave out the luck involved in most
of their battles, or the fortune of having good allies.  Or Tiamat.  Reian
shrugged.  "If you go in, then we go in with you, and gladly."
        "Thank you, Reian," Hank said quietly.  He stood, facing the castle, and his
eyes were like steel.  No, steel was never that hard, or that brittle.  "Let's
go."
        "About time," growled Bobby.

        Two hobgoblin soldiers stood just outside the entrance of a large, silken
tent, watching what they could of the battle with envious expressions.  They
were so engrossed in what was going on in front of them, that they never saw
the heavy urns until it was too late.
        "Thank you, Meridith," Sheila said.  She wore her old tunic, sash, and boots,
which had been carefully cleaned and mended at Eric's orders.  Even as she
spoke, she bent over the two bodies, taking what she thought she might need.
Already, she carried a coil of rope and a grappling hook looped over one
shoulder, smuggled to her just hours before by her maidservant.
        "I live to serve, m'Lady," Meridith said, a small smile on her lips, still
holding her urn, dented with the impression of a hobgoblin skull.  Sheila
smiled back.  It was good to see Meridith show some spirit, even if she still
acted as a slave.
        At that thought, Sheila's smiled turned sad.  She knew now the kind of pain
that could break a person's will.  She had held on to her own will only by her
fingernails, if that, when they had tortured her.  What pain had this young
woman suffered, that she never dared to be as equal to another, no matter
Sheila's encouragement?  And now, Sheila was out of time.
        "Thank you, Meridith," she said again, her voice hardly above a whisper this
time.  "You've been a true friend.  I don't . . . I don't know what I would've
done if you hadn't been there for me."
        Meridith looked away, clearly discomforted by the mingled warmth and tears in
Sheila's voice.  "It was my honor, m'Lady.  And my pleasure."
        "I'm glad."  Each of the hobgoblins had a large dagger, almost a short sword
for girls of their size.  Sheila handed one to Meridith.  "Take this.  Steal
some food and hide in the woods.  If it looks like the Bearers or the
hobgoblins have won, go . . ."  Sheila hesitated.  Where on this world would
be safe?  " . . . north.  When you reach the Dustlands, go along the mountains
to the east until you find a pass to Tardos Keep.  Mention my name, and
they'll take you in, and keep you safe."  If Venger wasn't besieging the
place.  But it was the only safe place in the Realm that Sheila could think of
close-by.
        "But what about you, m'Lady?" Meridith asked, clearly confused.  "And who
else could win?"
        "I have friends.  Hopefully, we'll find a way to beat both sides.  If not . .
. well, I have to go."  She didn't want to go.  She wanted to run, to hide, to
find the others.  She couldn't do this alone.  She had to do this alone.
        "But, m'Lady--"
        "That's an order, Meridith."  Sheila hated ordering her, but it was the only
way she could think of to keep her safe.  She took a cloak from one of the
guards and cut the bottom two feet from it.  It was dark enough that it might
aid her in hiding.  "Go.  Now.  Please."  That last word came out choked.  She
didn't want her to go.  She didn't want to be alone.
        "Yes, m'Lady.  May whatever God you worship be with you."  Meridith knelt
down and embraced Sheila, as if trying to give her some of her own inner
strength.
        And then she was gone, leaving Sheila alone.  "I hate being alone," she said
to herself, as if her own voice could fill the void.  Then she shook herself.
"Well, I am alone, and that's that.  Let's go, legs."  The long dagger was
tucked in her sash in its sheath and the hobgoblin cloak was pulled tight
around her shoulders as she ran towards the castle.  Not towards the main
gates, where the fighting was, but towards a section of wall.  That's what the
rope and grappling hook were for.

        Inside the castle, the two forces continued their bloody battle.  Slowly but
inexorably the Bearers were being driven back by the monstrous strength of the
hobgoblin warriors, but the end was far from sight.  Then, a third force
entered the fray.
        Reian's men, battle-hardened outlaws all, crashed upon the confused fray like
the surf on the beach.  Fighting in a disciplined wedge-formation, they broke
apart both chaos-ridden forces as an axe-head breaks rotted wood.  Not least
in the reasons for their success were the four young adventurers from another
world.  Whirling staff and massive club fought to either side of Reian, who
formed the point of the wedge, while behind them, a golden bow launched a
deadly rain of fiery-arrows.  Just behind the ranger, protected on all sides
by fierce fighting-men, a young Magician worked his magic--golden globes with
huge mouths and black, beady eyes fell upon Bearers and Hobgoblins alike.
        In the midst of all this confusion, it could hardly be considered strange
that a lone figure in a dark cloak could slip over the wall and make its way
along the catwalk to an upper doorway, unnoticed by all.
        At last, the wedge reached the main door to the central keep.  A single blow
of Bobby's club was sufficient to open it.  Those inside turned and ran,
unprepared to resist such magic.
        "I don't see your friend out here," shouted Reian above the din.
        Hank nodded grimly.  "He's inside."
        "How?" asked Presto.
        "Five gets you ten he has Sheila's cloak," Diana said.  Hank nodded again.
        "Then where's my sister?" Bobby demanded, his voice a feral growl.
        Diana laid a hand on his shoulder, unsure whether it was to comfort or
restrain the boy.  "Don't worry, Bobby.  We know she's alive."
        "Yeah," said Presto.  "We'll get her back."
        "So let's go find her."  Bobby was already stalking down the hall, like a
bear with a sore tooth.

        "How DARE they?" the Archbishop of the Bearers of the Pure Flame snarled.  He
stood in his chambers, staring down at the melee-turned-free-for-all in the
courtyard.  It was inconceivable, the forces that the Dark Powers had arrayed
against him this day.  "They shall all languish in the deepest pits of the
Abyss for this!"
        "With you for company, dear brother."
        "What?"  He whirled, rage-maddened eyes searching the opulent room for the
speaker of that feminine voice.  "Who said that?"
        "She did," said another voice, this one male and colder than ice.  There was
a blurring in the center of the large chamber, and two figures appeared, the
first wearing a black helm and throwing back a purple cloak, the second
dressed all in red and wearing a mask and cowl.  The one in the black helm
smiled, his eyes seeming to be lit by the red glow of the fires being lit
below.  "We meet at last, Your Holiness."
        But the Archbishop's eyes were not on the Warduke, but stared only at the
slender girl in red.  "You!"
        "Me," she agreed, her face twisted in a nasty smile.  "It's been, what, three
years now, my brother?"  So suddenly that it made the Archbishop step back,
the smile vanished, to be replaced by a look of insane hatred.  "Three years
since you did this to me!"  Her hand tore the cowl from her head, revealing
the deep and ugly burn scars that lined her temple and snaked about her eye,
scars that left a hairless swath along the top of her head.
        The Archbishop smiled, a sickly rictus.  "Aye, and it's too bad that I didn't
finish the job and remove your foul sorcery from the world forever."
        "My song SAVED our village," she snarled.  "If not for it, the hobgoblins
would have killed everyone who lived there, all of us!"
        "But it killed our parents, didn't it?" the Archbishop replied.  "Or rather,
my parents.  Your mother.  I imagine the demon that sired you is still loose
in the world."
        "Shut up shut up SHUT UP!" she screamed, drawing her dagger and stepping
forward.  A gauntleted hand grabbed her shoulder.  "Let me go!" she screamed,
trying to wrench her shoulder away.  She might as well have tried to tear it
from her body.
        "He's mine," the Warduke said, his voice never changing.  "I took oath:  The
first lifesblood my sword spills will be his."
        Scarlet glared at him in unmitigating hatred for a moment, but nodded.  "Make
it slow.  Make him scream," she said.  "Like he made me."
        Still without inflection, the Warduke said, "As you wish," and drew his
sword.
        "Eric, no!"

        They fought their way through those within without pausing save to question
those that surrendered as to the way.  At one point, they were forced to fall
back from a division of soldiers, but fortunately, they were able to escape in
the direction they needed to go.  It was on the stairway leading to the
Archbishop's chambers, though, that they found their first definite evidence
that Eric had been there.
        Hank knelt down between the two guards who lay, moaning, on the hard stone
steps.  Each had a long gash on their chest that cut through mail like cloth
but didn't penetrate past the ribs.  The wounds were frost-rimmed.  "What
happened?" he asked the one that seemed the most awake.
        " . . . came out of nowhere . . . appeared . . . woman with him . . . never
had a chance . . ." the guard murmured.  He gasped with the pain of his frozen
wound.
        "Did the woman have red hair?  DID SHE?" Bobby shouted at him.  The man's
eyes rolled up in his head and he fainted dead away.
        "There they are!" a voice cried from below.  The division of soldiers
gathered at the bottom of the stairway.
        "Go, Hank!" Presto shouted.
        "We can handle them," Bobby added grimly.  "Just . . . find Sheila."
        Hank nodded.  "I will.  I promise."  He glanced at Diana, who looked at him
with eyes full of sadness.
        "It's the way it's gotta be, Hank," she said.  "Dungeon Master said it had to
be you."  And then, in a whisper so quiet that he almost didn't hear:  "And
God have mercy on you."
        "I know."  Hank turned his back on them, drew his bow, and put a golden arrow
through the lock.

        Scarlet whirled so fast that it surprised even the Warduke, drawing and
throwing three knives all in one motion.
        Sheila threw herself from the window.  The first knife missed her cleanly.
The second passed through her cloak.  The third nicked her arm in passing.
She hit the floor rolling and came to her feet behind a table covered with
rich foods on silver dishes.  "Eric!" she shouted.
        Almost as fast as Scarlet had drawn the knives, the Warduke had his sword out
and to her throat.  "That's my consort, girl!" he growled.  Scarlet's eyes
could have lit his cloak from the way they burned as she glared at him.
        Sheila slowly stood, eyeing both of them carefully.  Then she caught sight of
the movement behind them.  "Eric, look out!"
        Eric spun, deflecting the Archbishop's huge broadsword easily from his shield
and counterattacked.  The two pirouetted together in a deadly dance of steel.
It was a contest of masters, steel ringing against steel with such speed that
it thwarted the eye that tried to follow them.
        "Eric, stop!" Sheila shouted again, taking a step around the table.  Scarlet
stepped in front of her, dagger drawn.  Sheila drew her own.  "Get out of my
way, Scarlet."
        "After your friend has finished his job, not before."  Scarlet's face was
cool and impassive.  Sheila started to slide past her, but she stepped in her
path again, dagger held for a killing thrust.  "Why do you care?  I know what
he did to you.  LOOK AT WHAT HE DID TO ME!"
        Sheila couldn't.  She saw the scars and saw her own face beneath them.  Her
eyes refused to focus on them, instead slipping past to where Eric drove the
Archbishop relentlessly back.  "I know, Scarlet," she said in a voice full of
sorrow.  Another person broken by pain.  She thought of her own loneliness
these past weeks, with Meridith the only person she could talk to, turn to for
comfort.  Scarlet didn't have anyone.  "But I won't sacrifice Eric for your
revenge.  Or mine."
        Scarlet's face didn't change--if anything, it became even stonier.  "Don't
you dare--" she started when from behind her there came the sound of steel
cracking.  She half-turned so she could see Eric standing over the Archbishop,
who held a hilt with an inch of broken blade sticking out from it.
        "So it ends," said the Warduke in an almost bored voice.  He cast aside his
shield to free his hand, with which he grabbed hold of the Archbishop's robes
and hauled him to his feet.
        "So finish it," the Archbishop snarled.  Blood ran down from a gash in his
forehead. His weapon may have been broken, but the man who wielded it was not.
Indeed, there was something like triumph in his eyes, eyes so much like
Scarlet's that it was suddenly easy to see them for brother and sister.
        "I promised to make you scream first," said the Warduke, and he slowly drew
his blade along the Archbishop's arm.  The Archbishop made a strangled noise,
but he held onto his will and didn't let out the scream.  Unconcerned, the
Warduke cut the Archbishop along his other arm, and then across his chest.
Small cuts, hardly deep enough to bleed, but coming from that frozen blade,
exquisitely painful.
        "Eric!" Sheila shouted again, trying to push past Scarlet.  Scarlet caught
her cloak in one arm as she passed and yanked on it as she kicked Sheila's
knee out from under her.  Sheila seized her hand in her own, and the two went
down in a heap.  They struggled for a moment, and then Sheila managed to put a
foot between them.  With a heave, she kicked Scarlet up and back as the sound
of a door being kicked open reached her ears.  It was followed almost
immediately by a familiar sizzling hum, and a band of golden light spun around
Scarlet, pinning arms to sides and legs together.  Scarlet lost her balance
and fell to the ground in a heap.
        "Sheila!" cried a familiar voice.
        "Hank!"  Sheila climbed heavily to her feet and ran to him, seizing him in a
fierce hug.  Her vision blurred with tears as she realized that the nightmare
was over, that she wasn't alone anymore.  Hank put an awkward arm around her.
        "Ranger," growled the Warduke, glancing over at them from his sport.
        Sheila felt Hank stiffen, and she didn't protest when he gently and
protectively pushed her behind himself.  Hank would make everything all right.
He always did.
        "Eric," Hank said in a voice that was sad and harsh all at once, "it's over.
It's time to quit."
        Eric stared at him incredulously.  "What are you talking about?  I've won."
        "No.  Look down."  Eric looked out the large window and stiffened, still
holding the Archbishop by his robes.  A growl echoed beneath the black helm.
Hank went on, "Both your army and that of the Bearers have been defeated,
Eric.  It's time to stop playing the Warduke, and come back to us."
        "I'M NOT PLAYING!  I AM THE WARDUKE!" Eric roared.  The Archbishop twisted,
and his robes tore leaving Eric with a piece of them in his hand and the
Archbishop fallen to the floor.  Eric looked at him for the first time since
Hank had entered the room.  "It's not over, not until I finish with him.  I
swore an oath."  He raised his sword.
        Then Hank did something that left Sheila feeling as if someone had stripped
her of her cloak in a snowstorm:  He drew an arrow to his cheek, and leveled
it at Eric.  At his heart.  "Put it down, Eric."
        "Hank . . ."  Sheila put a hand to his shoulder, but he shrugged it off.  She
fell back as if struck.  Had Hank gone mad too?
        Eric seemed to think so too, to judge by his expression beneath the helm.
"Hank . . . you don't know what he did to Sheila.  What he did to hundreds,
thousands, of others!"
        "This isn't about him, Eric.  This is about you."  Hank's aim never wavered.
"Put the sword down, or I will shoot you.  Through the heart."
        Eric stepped back slowly.  He started to set down the blade, but something
like a convulsion shook him, and for a moment it seemed that he would skewer
the Archbishop instead.  Hank shifted his aim, and a golden arrow struck the
sword from Eric's hand.  Before the first arrow had even reached its target,
Hank had drawn another, once again poised to kill.  "Now," he said in a voice
like cold iron, "take off the helm."
        Eric, a young man who had shown no fear since putting on that helm, blanched
now like someone ordered to put the noose around his own neck.  "Hank . . . I
. . . I can't . . . You won't."  Those last words were spoken with more
strength, in the Warduke's voice.
        "Take it off!  Take it off now or I.  Will.  Kill.  You.  Eric!" Hank
shouted.
        ". . . no . . ." Sheila whispered, staggering against the table.  He meant
it.  He really meant it.  And it wasn't just the harsh tone or the steely eyes
that convinced her of it either.  It was the tears that ran down his face.  He
was mourning his friend already.
        Dear Lord, what was this doing to him?
        Eric saw it too.  Slowly, he licked his lips and swallowed.  Then he snarled
wordlessly.  He was a man, a boy really, torn between the magical rage of the
cursed helm of the Warduke and the honor and chivalry that went with the
golden shield of the Cavalier.  The fierce battle between the two, opposites
in every sense of the word, had been fought for weeks now, with no conclusion.
Though to others it had seemed that the Warduke had won at the outset, it was
the goodness that was inherent in him, the honor that was slowly surfacing in
the rich man's spoiled son, that had kept the Warduke in check, sparing lives
that the Warduke would reap for his pleasure.  It had been a losing battle, a
boy not yet old enough for his learner's permit against the monstrous evil of
a centuries-old curse, but he had never ceased to fight it, not for one moment
of one day since he had taken the helm, not for his own gain, but to save a
friend.
        But now self-preservation, a powerful force in the lives of men that the
Warduke understood all too well, tipped the balance.  There wasn't a doubt in
his mind that Hank would kill him.  There wasn't a doubt in the Warduke's
mind, either.
        Eric's hands reached up and clutched the black helm in something like a
convulsive death-grip, and with a scream, he threw it across the floor.
Clutching his head and falling to the floor, he screamed at the top of his
lungs, "Destroy it!  Destroy it!"
        Hank took aim and loosed.  Golden light burned the black helm to ash.  It
seemed that there was a final scream of hatred from the Warduke, coming from
the sky, and then it was gone.  Forever.
        Hank's legs gave way and he fell to an awkward sitting position on the floor,
elbows on knees and his head hanging low, utterly spent.  For a second time,
there was the sound of a door being kicked open.  "Sis?" said a rough voice
from that direction.  Then:  "Sheila!"
        "Bobby!"  She ran over to him and hugged him, weeping in gratitude that her
little brother was safe, and they were together again.  Despite himself, Bobby
started crying too.
        So did Eric.  "What have I done?" he whispered to himself.
        A gentle, gnarled hand touched his shoulder.  "You have done what no one else
could do in eight hundred years, Cavalier," said the Dungeon Master.  "You
have broken the Curse of the Warduke."
        Eric sighed.  "Yeah, right.   And how many had to die for it."  He glanced
over at Presto and Diana, who knelt down beside him.  There was no
condemnation in their eyes, only a mingled relief and weariness.  Presto
opened his mouth to say something, but then hesitated and closed it again.
        The Dungeon Master seemed weary too, but he smiled.  "Wrong question,
Cavalier.  Better to ask, how many would have died had you not taken the helm?
You and the other Young Ones, plus all the others the Bearers would have
killed in future years.  Or, ask how many lives you spared or saved once you
took the helm.  Think on that before you condemn yourself."  He patted Eric
gently on the shoulder and walked over to Hank.
        "Well done, Ranger," he said, bowing slightly.  "You did it all exactly
right."
        Hank smiled at him wanly, and then leaned back against a stone pillar, and
fell into his first restful sleep since the whole affair had begun.
        "Hey, he's gone!" said Bobby, and for once, he didn't mean the Dungeon
Master.  And indeed, the Archbishop had vanished, escaped while their
attention was elsewhere.
        "He's not the only one," said Sheila sadly.  Scarlet was also gone.  Sheila
sighed and hugged her brother again--for some reason, Bobby didn't seem to be
protesting as much as usual today.  "Poor girl," she murmured to herself.
Broken and alone.
        Eric glanced out the balcony window again, to where the men who had fallen on
the battle were raising a banner:  The Grey Wolf.  But that wasn't really what
held his attention.  Rather, he stared at the form Presto's magic had taken.
"Pac-Men?" he asked aloud, bemused despite himself.  Presto just shrugged and
grinned, glad to see something of the old Eric back.

Epilogue:
        Reian, having stolen victory in battle from both the Bearers and the
hobgoblins, took the Keep for his own.  As requested both by Hank and by Eric,
he showed mercy to those taken prisoner, and as Sheila asked, took in the
former slaves, aiding them in establishing their own steadings and building
their pride back up.  Meredith was not among them.
        The man once known as the Archbishop fled across the Realm as a beggar,
forever looking over his shoulder for the woman known as Scarlet, who had not
forgotten her revenge.  The Young Ones also set out, and though not looking
for either of the others, they were destined to meet again.
        And Shadow Demon, who had watched Eric's War from the dark and murky places
of the forest and the Keep, shook his insubstantial head upon seeing its
conclusion.  It was too bad, he thought.  His true Master would have been most
pleased with the destruction the boy would have caused.

The End . . .

Next Issue:
        "The City of Silver Fire"--in the aftermath of "The Curse of Warduke," the
Young Ones race to stop Venger from attaining the power of the Elven magic.

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Trivia Answers from Last Issue!

(1)  "Night of No Tomorrow"--the dragon is good old Tiamat, and the
dungeon is the basement room in Merlin's castle which manages to hold
her prisoner.

(2)  "The Time Lost"--The pilot of Starfire-19 does aerial battle with
a blue dragon who breathes lightning, then he gets thrown in a cell with
a bunch of other warriors from other times.

(3)  "Cave of the Fairy Dragons"--King Varan kept the leader of the
title dragons in a dungeon that was warded against the kids' weapons.

(4)  "Servant of Evil"--featuring the ultimate dungeon, the Prison of
Agony, and a neat, though vulnerable, two-headed lava-dragon whipped
up by Venger.

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