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Back to Empire on the HPe3000
... and ...
This is a first draft of a story set in the world of Greyhawk.
It is based on a home campaign so some of the people, places and things
may be different. Any helpful comments or suggestions are very welcome.
Thanks
Jason Zavoda
Telenstil lay flat atop the rock, the stone was cold even through
his clothes. Below him, standing in the stream, was Harald. He stood
behind a boulder, a smoothsided lump of granite worn by the water, carved
from the surrounding oerth, twice the rangers height.
The blade the ranger held began to sing, but only Harald could
near the tune. Two-handed, the sword was long, almost the rangers
height, the metal rippled like the running water.
There was the cry of birds, a mournful cawing, crows or ravens on
the wing calling out to each other. A sound came from the wooded slope,
something crashed through the thick brush. Harald leaned back against
the stone, he placed his shoulder to the rock and looked up to where
the elf lay hidden. The ledge, a single boulder, was empty, Harald
waited for the mage to cast his spells before rushing out and testing
his strength and steel against the giants flesh.
Up the slope Telenstil looked down. He'd crept to the rocks edge
and peered over, his eyes intent on the woods downstream and the crashing
of the underbrush. Suddenly the brush split apart and a huge brown shape
came leaping into view. A stag, a living twin of the monstrous spirit
beast they'd fought in Nosnra's hall. It stopped and raised its head,
it coughed out a challenge to the world, then leapt onward, down the slope,
splashing surefooted through the stream, racing to the north.
Telenstil waved a hand at Harald trying to signal for the ranger
to stay back. Harald understood, he froze in place, even as the stag drew
near. It ran past the boulder, a flash of brown, Harald smiled, he waved
back to Telenstil, the toothy grin he wore visible even up the slope.
Then the brush began to shake once more, a small tree came
smashing to the ground. Two shaggy heads appeared high up among the
branches, a hand ripped a limb wide as a fat mans leg from the bole
of an ancient tree. It flung the branch aside as if it were a twig and
the giant stepped from the bush.
In a loud voice it spoke, Telenstil could hear the words clear
as if they stood beside him.
"Let's take the stream Skule." the giant complained. "This path is
overgrown."
"You can soak your feet." Skule told his companion. "Go ahead,
I will keep mine dry."
"I am supposed to be at Thurkill's by nightfall."
"Then run, I will make Folcwalda's before the sun sets," laughed
Skule, "and I will have dry feet."
"You are no better than a dwur." muttered the other giant.
"What was that!" bellowed Skule.
"Nothing, your ears are full of dirt."
The two had wandered down the trail as they spoke, they reached a
point almost to the boulder where Harald stood. They were directly below
the ledge only an arms length apart, their words had turned to glares
and the one called Skule looked daggers at his companion.
Telenstil stood up, the giants could not hear his words but they
heard the crack of thunder that came snapping down the hill. The blinding
flash struck them both and a nimbus of blue danced on the water and the
stones. Harald felt the bolt, a burning chill went through him and made
his greying hair stand on end.
Skule screamed out in pain and roared a defiant challenge. The
other giant beat out a smoking patch of scalp with a hand lined black with
burnt flesh. They charged up the hill with alarming speed.
* * *
(To Be Continued)