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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
A fragment of light, a swirling spark of red immeshed with gold
shot toward her. Gytha recoiled but her body was down below, she had
no eyes to blink, she was only spirit detached and formless. Time
had slowed, the falling of the water, the battle between the
serpent and the power of the saint, and the shower of gleaming
sparks, they had moved like a falling leaf on a windless day.
Time returned, the burning ember, the shard of evil and good
came rushing up, it struck and she was seeing through her eyes again.
A dozen fiery splinters stung her arms and face, the cup fell forgotten
from her hand and she stumbled back, a small cry of shock and pain escaped
her lips.
"Gytha!" Telenstil yelled, he had been watching her, standing back
by Ghibelline who lay unconscious, healing as he slept.
Gytha clenched her hands and cleared her head. All her senses came
flooding back, for an eternal moment she had been both spirit and flesh,
now she had returned to just her purely mortal guise. There was a shock,
a tingling that ran through her hands and feet as if lightning had struck
nearby.
"Are you hurt?" Telenstil asked. He was by her side, she had stood
frozen while he approached, but to her no time had passed. The moment that
time had stretched and slowed had snapped back, she lost a few seconds
in recompense.
"I'm fine." she said in a quavering voice. "Fine." Gytha pulled
her shoulders back and squared them, steadied her voice and willed
strength back into her limbs. "Now I must heal him."
* * *
Deep below the Steading a dank chamber was lit only by the dull
embers of a dying fire. Its occupants lay dead in the vast chamber beyond,
but the room still held their scent, thick and pungent. Two huge apes had
laired within, pets to their master who shared the room. The musk they
extruded fought against the stench of the giants unwashed flesh.
The keeper, his name forgotten, had been a malformed wretch, but
his hunched and distorted form had not hindered his great strength. Now
the massive arms lay still, the flesh lifeless and corrupting, but a
malign spirit burned within the rotting corpse. No prayer had been said,
his body lay unhallowed and desecrated by the revolting orcs.
Inside the body was a seed of undead life fed by an anger that
kept the spirit of the keeper bound to the dungeon and the inanimate
flesh. Suddenly the flame burst into life, a voice called to the keeper
and he called back.
A scream of pain, of loss, a hiss that crackled with fire.
The power of the divine burnt it though the serpent was made of flame. A
portion of it died, a limb cut off, the severed end came thrashing back
and desperately sought another host. It felt the spirit of the malformed
giant, felt the anger, the overwhelming hate. The serpent knew the call
would be answered and lent the giant strength.
Dead flesh moved, a red light burned within the cold staring eyes.
The keeper rose, he touched the gaping wounds, a swollen tongue ran across
blue lips, a thumbless hand reached up and felt along the crack across
his skull. The hand came back, granules of dried blood coating the
fingertips. The keeper put them to his tongue, there was no taste, but
he smiled anyway.
The call came again. It sent shivers up his spine, they turned
into a rootwork of fire that traced a path across his nerves.
"Ardare..." the voice called to him. "Ardare..." it demanded.
"I come." a sepulchered voice broke out, no lung or cord of
muscle had made the sound. The fire that burned behind its eyes came
from the spirit world, it was not fed by air or flesh, the keeper
lived but was undead.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)