Glory to Kord Everlasting!

A mighty fortress is our Kord,

A bulwark never failing;

Our helper He, amid the flood

Of enemies prevailing;

For still our pressing foes

Doth seek to work us woes;

His craft and power are great,

And, armed with cruel hate,

On Fissa is not his equal.

Egil's voice sang out clearly across the battlefield as the throng of goblins surrounded him, their axes and spears clattering on his raised shield. Striding forward, slashing and stabbing with his sword, he finally reached his fallen companion. Nashox was lying face down, his helmet split open by a blow from the hulking orc warrior in front.

Why was he even here? While Kord was everywhere battle was fought, being a chaplain to a bunch of mercenaries who hired on with every petty noble who fancied himself a military commander only to be massacred by properly organised and well-led foes was getting a bit old hat. The opportunities for feats of bravery were always welcome, but it was wasted here, always rectifying mistakes, always managing nothing but mitigating the losses brought on by the stupidity of their employer.

Egil surged forward towards the orc warrior, sword raised to strike, his voice booming out another prayer to his vengeful god:

All praise to Thee, eternal Kord,

Who, wields a sharp and bloody sword,

Dost take the battle for Thy throne,

While struggle and wars are Thine alone.

For Kord!

The blow struck true, the orc reeled back in panic at the sudden ferocity of Egil's attack. The power of Egil's prayer reached Nashox ears, and he came to, dragging himself back from danger and behind Egil.

Egil pulled Nashox with him as they retreated from the battle. Nashox was gravely wounded, the hobgoblin's arm hung limply at his side, unusable.

The battle was lost, even a fool could see that. Still the chinless wonder leading them from the rear, insisted that his hired men press on to certain death. Egil snarled in disgust, and then turned away, where was the glory in dying for a spoiled noble fighting his elder brother over the inheritance rights of a single grazing field for his fat cattle? Not even a battlethirsty god like Kord approved of this madness.

Nashox wounds would take weeks to heal, even with his ministrations. Supporting his hobgoblin comrade, Egil limped away from battle. He remembered Nashox talking about a brother having work as a guard in Lakeport, only a couple of days journey away, perhaps he could leave his friend off there and strike out on his own?