*Death in the Cloudspine*
Chapter One: The Coming of the Dark
It's almost over.
Can you feel it?
Three straight days of fighting. Three days of hacking, slashing, twisting, chopping, and mutilating the minions of the dark. Three full days, and not an end in sight.
Not the desired end, at any rate.
The small force of berserks had been stranded in the Cloudspine at the onset of winter and the coming of the snows. They had managed to find a warm cave, filled with preserved vituals and water left behind by a considerably large Light force some years before. They had counted their blessings, rationed their food, and prepared to sit out the long and hard winter.
They had considered themselves lucky. Luck would have been if the cave had collapsed under twenty feet of stifling snow in their first week of captivity, thus ending their suffering early.
The winter wore on without end. Some died, many grew weak. A few men were considering whether to resort to eating the bodies of their dead companions, when suddenly, almost miraculously, the snow stopped.
A week later, the sun returned, and the snows and ice began to melt. Three days ago, those who had survived the winter, about twenty battle hardened men, ranging from their early twenties into late middle age, began preparations to bury their dead and depart for home.
There was one, called Sanvin, Bringer of Death, who had lost his brother during the winter. While others were packing up the few bits of food remaining, and filling canteens with the melting snow, Sanvin took to a small trail, wishing for time alone to mourn for his brother. The sunlight played fleeting games with the shadows cast by skeletons of trees, casting them on the path both before and behind young Sanvin-though strangely, the shadows refused to touch him, rather warping around and distorting themselves. The sunlight continued on through the trees, and flickered teasingly off the white of far off mountaintops, as if to light the way back to the home these men finally had hope of seeing again.
Sanvin began to sing an ancient tune of sorrow. Mournful melodies filled the morning air, and Sanvin became lost in his emotions.
Every berserk goes through a long and arduous training process. This training is designed not only to make one proficient as a warrior, but to hone the senses and to build a constant state of alertness, a state of perpetual readiness. This is why the berserks are so successful in battle-they are ready for anything that may come at them, and are rarely caught off guard.
Sanvin, in grief for his brother, let down this guard. He sat down with his head in his arms, and between mournful melodies and high notes of intense sorrow, his superb senses failed to pick up the approaching of other beings. Beings intent on his destruction.
When Sanvin looked up, he was surrounded. The Dark had reentered the Cloudspine.
Instantly, all sadness flickered away, and was replaced by ferocious anger and rage at being caught unawares. Every muscle of Sanvin's highly toned and perfectly prepared fighting machine of a body became tensed, and then relaxed, in unison, and then the machine charged, throwing himself at the circle of thrall around him.
But Sanvin detected the intruders too late.
He slashed in every direction. Bits of thrall flew through the air, legs were hewn off, heads were split open, blood covered the thin layer of snow remaining like a vibrant red carpet. And across this ever expanding carpet Sanvin raged, unrelenting in his assault, refusing to acknowledge that he had failed. Refusing to realise he should have never gone off alone, refusing to acknowledge that he had exposed his weakness. The piles of the dead grew. But more pressed upon him. For every arm he dismembered, three more axes beared down upon him. Still, twisting, turning, dodging, weaving, hacking, thrusting, parrying, slithering, he managed to avoid his enemies attempts at his life. But he had nowhere to run. He was in a circle of thrall hundreds deep on every side.
Still he bore on, never tiring, never resting, not for a moment. And, finally, as he slashed one of his opponents in half, he saw an opening behind. He ran wildly, fighting all the while, and the trail of undead that lay at his feet is uncountable. He broke through the circle, and ran for the trees.
He cared not what may lay in the brush, where he was running, or where he was running to, All he knew was that he had hundreds of thrall behind him, and he had to get back to camp. As he reached the brush, he was prepared for whatever horror may be waiting for him.
Out stepped a myrmidon. A lone withering warrior, silent and pathetic. Sinvin could hardly believe his luck. A single opponent? He laughed, and ran, preparing to disembowel the aged fighter with a single stroke.
He hadn't noticed the thrall behind him had stopped. Or that the myrmidon looked completely fearless in the face of such a mighty warrior.
He came within twenty yards of the myrmidon. Then ten. Approaching five yards. And directly behind the warrior was the forest, safety. Ten feet. Sanvin raised his sword.
It was then that a brilliant flash of lightning seared through the air, catching Sanvin in his left sie and throwing him upon the ground. A fetch stepped into view, and smiled at the stench of burning flesh.
Sanvin, eyes wide with horror, edged away.
The fetch raised its hands.
Sanvin lept to his feet and ran.
A flash of light followed him. The super powerful bolt of energy pierced the base of his neck, passed effortlessly through the skin, and hit the base of his brain.
Sanvin fell to the ground, dead. The myrmidon laughed, and began to skin the blacked corpse for a fresh addition to the fetch's wardrobe.
The thrall horde turned, and continued marching.
The joy of this small camp of homesick berserks was not to last much longer. Day one had begun.
********************************
