|
"The weapon
you now carry is called Dead-Hand. No undead nor summoned spirit can
withstand the power of the blade, nor can any dragon of death harm you.
With that sword you must lead your people against the foul menace that
haunts your kin." Belrus was suddenly silent, the room seemed empty
when his words faded away. Freki couldn't answer, so he simply nodded
and mumbled his thanks. Belrus pointed to a cot near a large fireplace,
Freki suddenly felt very tired and shuffled over to the cot and fell
asleep.
Freki awoke in his tent in the sunlight, strangely warm
for having spent the night on the peak of a mountain. He was sure his
nighttime adventure had been a dream until he looked down and saw the
sword strapped to his leg. He hurredly packed his things and raced down
the mountain. He travelled home nearly nonstop relying heavily on the
wonderful rest he had gotten the night on the mountain. Freki could
walk nearly twice as far in day without needing rest and covered the
distance back home in half the time it had taken to reach the mountains.
When he returned to his home he found the hollowed hills
were abandoned. Fearing the worst, Freki hurried to the cave-riddled
ravine every Rholth child was taught to evacuate to should they be
discovered. There he found his clan avoiding one of the many patrols.
Lord Fergil explained the patrols were more persistant this time, they
would not be diverted, so the entire clan left the hills to await the
departure of the undead patrol.
|
|
|
 |
|
Freki told his
father of the weapon Belrus had given him and asked to lead a few
warriors to attack the patrol. Lord Fergil quickly denied him his
request. They would not risk the lives of all the clan to satisfy
Freki's need to fight. Freki was enraged at the answer, but honored his
father's wishes. Even though he wanted to leave alone and face down the
patrol with Dead-Hand, he stayed in the ravine and waited for the call
to return home.
The scouts soon came in saying the undead were heading
straight for the ravine. There was only enough time to prepare for
battle, not nearly enough time to evacuate the non-combatants. Freki
and the rest of the clan's warriors hurried to the mouth of the ravine
and set for a charge. They all knew in what numbers the undead
travelled and also knew they hadn't enough men to defeat them. The
front line readied, the remaining warriors quickly lit fires and armed
with bows to rain fire into the combustable enemy.
The skeletons and zombies came first slowly coming into
view and shambling toward the norse without pause. The lit arrows
slimmed their ranks, but the damp zombies and fleshless skeletons were
difficult to burn. When the mindless undead reached the front rank of
Rholth, the warriors went into instant action whirling weapons and
dodging badly aimed attacks. The relentless undead cared little for the
amazing display of battle prowess. Such a display could only last for
so long before the warriors became tired and sloppy, eventually falling
at the hands of the animated corpses. They did not need to know that by
sheer numbers alone they would win for it to happen.
|
|
