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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
Soon a fire blazed again within the pit at the center of the
camp. The giants formed two half-circles about it, their arms outstretched
to the sky. In their hard tongue they chanted together, calling for the
fire to send forth its light.
At the edge of the camp Ivo felt the touch of power reach out and
contest with his magic spell. Heavy and solid, the magic of the giants
was crude but filled with strength. The witans of many halls,
magician-priests like the cold Suel-barbarian skalds of the
east, had cast many enchantments on this spot. Fjolver, the old giant,
was no doubt something of a witan himself, or so Ivo sensed. The power
drawn from the chanting of the giants seemed to feed into Fjolver and
out into the fire.
The flames danced and roared as if in reply to the giants words.
It appeared to Ivo as if he could see the faces of many giants in the
flames. A long wavering hand pointed toward him, reaching out as if to
tear the illusion of his spell apart in its fiery grasp.
Old words, that came from the depths of the past and the oerth,
came to Ivo's lips. The secret tongue of gnomish magic. Centuries of
skill wove the soundless words into a shield, a net, a covering like
the dirt that filled a grave, and the faces within the fire wailed
and went out. Only the dim embers of the fuel were left at the
bottom of the pit.
"Ahhhhh!!!!" moaned Fjolver and clasped his hands to the side
of his head.
The wolves lifted their voices and muzzles to the sky and howled.
* * *
Orc bones cracked within the hands of the Keeper. The undead
giant had wormed his way through the small caverns that had been home to
the rebellous orcs. In desperation a handful of those who had taken a hand
in the Keepers death had turned and struck at him. Gaping wounds were
half-closed on his cold, unhallowed flesh.
The blades of weak and frightened orcs had not saved them from
the vengeance of the giant. All had died. Most within the depths of caves
whose floors were traps of mire and unseen falls into the depths. Some had
been eaten by the great blind lizards which dwelled near the fast
subterranean stream that ran beneath the steading. The last, those too
scared to run or a few brave enough to fight, had been torn to pieces,
their bones snapped and crushed, their bodies shredded against the rough
stones of the cave.
"Come...!" hissed Ardare in the giant's mind. "Come... stop
your play. Vengeance! Vengeance!"
"Vengeance." the Keeper repeated the word, grasping at it with
his spirit, feeling a fiery power flow into his chill body.
"To Kalfashow, to my brother." the red snake that filled his mind
spat out. "Command, I command. To Kalfashow, the surface."
"Vengeance." growled the Keeper.
"Kalfashow and our vengeance." Ardare agreed.
The Keeper began to pull stones away, still on his belly and
crawling like a snake. A great fall of rock was between him and the
passages beneath the steading. The undead giant worked with strength
greater than he had possessed in life. He did not pause, but wormed his
way forward, oblivious to pain, though more rock fell on top of him
and shards of stone stabbed at his hands.
* * *
(To Be Continued...)