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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
"Ho! The camp! Hvedrung!" a voice boomed from the lower
path. "Hvedrung!"
The grey wolf bounded toward the entrance to the trail, the rest
of the grey pack yipped and howled, but did not move.
"What was that noise!" the deep, rough voice bellowed. "Fjolver!
Is that you and your boys singing, or is that a moose caught in
a trap?" a giant called, as he stepped into view from the lower trail.
"Hlebard!" yelled back the old giant, the master of the black
wolves. "Your pups have been waiting for you. But no need to worry!"
laughed Fjolver. "My wolves have been keeping them safe."
"Pups!" Hlebard laughed back in mock outrage. As he stepped from
the trail a small group of giant warriors stepped up behind him. "You
see the world upside down and backwards, Old One. Are those black-haired
whelps of yours full grown?"
Fjolver just laughed in reply, his sides heaving and his face
going red. "What brings you here?" he asked when his breath returned.
"Bad business." said Hlebard. His voice dropped to a growl and
the laughter fled from him.
"We have just arrived." the older giant swept his hand back toward
his followers to show them standing with their burdens still on their
shoulders. "You are welcome to come within our camp."
"We offer our thanks." said Hlebard. "All blood-debt and hard
words are left outside the ring of fire-light. Let they be forgotten in
the dark."
"Let them be forgotten." Fjolver and all his warriors replied
together.
The two leaders reached out and clasped forearms. Then Hlebard's
warriors walked past the two and into the camp. The grey wolves ran to
meet their masters. The giants kicked and swatted at them playfully as
they went to greet their fellows from the west.
Hlebard's and Fjolver's warriors showed no sign of any feud
or ill-feelings that might have lain between them. Instead they seemed
like old friends, meeting for the first time in several seasons. This was
the way of the giants of the western hills and mountains. Campsites
were sacred places. Only a renegade would bring or start a feud within
the boundary of the fire's light.
"Hlebard, your news?" asked Fjolver, "Do you have time to first
break the fast of the trail? We have food and drink to share."
"No." Hlebard shook his head. "We must first speak of these
tidings."
Fjolver turned toward his warriors and called to a large,
red-haired giant. "The fire is cold. Svarang, you are the fire's
servant for this camp."
"Aye Fjolver." the giant bowed his head respectfully. He
lowered the end of the huge pole that sat on his shoulder and as
he did, the giant behind him shifted the ponderous weight off his own
shoulder as well.
The canvas sacks that were slung from the wooden pole smacked
solidly against the stones and gave forth an audible grunt. Now the other
giants began to drop their burdens as well, till they had piled them in
several rows.
Svarang led two of his fellows off to the edge of the camp. They
passed close to the gnome Ivo. One huge foot seemed about to trod upon
the small wizard, but the power of the spell turned the giants tread
and the foot came down to one side, while Ivo kept up the weaving
of his spell.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)