Guardians of Thólhain

Cold night fell on Lord Vigrid’s Keep, twilight had struck hard and swiftly. Alone in his chamber, Vigrid’s eyes burned from bitter tears, a great melancholy devoured his worn body and anguished soul. Head in his hands he prayed. To impassive and unloving Agrona he begged, she had forsaken him and his kin, his beloved goddess of war had abandoned all mortals, leaving man, woman and child to weep in the eternal dark that swept across the land.

Torment and affliction now plagued the sacred kingdom of Guntharók. Her mighty towers toppled to the dust, her monuments to wisdom and culture burned to the ground, her proud people maimed, slaughtered or worse. For out from a subterranean netherworld, creatures from the abyss swarmed, spreading a brooding living shadow across the earth. Nothing was spared, man nor beast, crops nor wells, everything turned black as midnight in the hideous wake of the Fomorii horde.

The once proud warriors of Guntharók, defenders and guards, all now turned to ash and withered in the poison storm. Destroyed by the seething, vile, creeping horror of mis-shaped ghouls. Not gods, nor men, nor beasts, but demons. An army borne from the womb of some unforgiving hell, shunned from the very depths of Hades by their own brutal bretheren.

“I salute you great deity Silenus, the playful divinity of pleasure! I find succor in you! I raise my crystal glass aloft and swill to all tomorrows!” hailed Vigrid. The warlord was as one undead, with open arms he welcomed the warmth and peace of the grave. His bright dagger held before him, he cried, “Behold old friend, my trusted steel, let torment end this night, strike deep, strike true and seek out my enemy’s hidden heart!” He backed up against the cold stone wall and waited. His eyes glared, like a terrified child, like a man condemned.

At length, the heavy drum of feet fell on flagstone beyond the chamber door, baying yelps of blood curdling menace rang out, followed by the pulsing crack and thud of steel on splintered oak. The end of an empire was at hand.

*************

Through the trees Yasma ran, throwing her crude cloth garment skyward, she leapt, bound and skipped towards a crystal pool. The soft low sun sparkled on the water and cast a celestial glow on the forest glade. Her body slipped into the blue flashing water, sending an array of brilliantly hued dragonflies sparking across the surface. Wearied by the days trek, she felt refreshed in the cool deep water. Her mood lifted, elation sprang into her youthful soul. Laying back, she let her body flow on the rippling surface, the waters’ embrace rejuvinated her aching limbs. The sun was a sinking golden disc as the twilight birdsong echoed around her, cascading from above like a thousand sweet lullabies.

A proud figure stood at the waters edge, high on an overhanging rock set above the cascading river that fed forcefully into the pool. Ever alert, his keen eyes searched along the edge of the riverbanks for any sign of movement or menace. But the pale skinned, dark haired vision elegantly dancing through the water below proved to be the most wonderous distraction. Her alluring bosom, curved hips and slender legs flowed and turned with ease like a beautiful sea nymph at play in the caress of the evening sun.

“Join me Athgóth!” Yasma cried out with delight.

“Aye, that I will girl, it has been a long dry day of travel” Athgóth barked as he undressed.

Yasma watched as he strode into the water, her dark eyes burned at the sight of him, he was unlike any man she had ever known. This virile and resolute Northman made a mockery of the effete pampered and civillised noblemen who sought her company and favours in far off Zorentis. She marveled at his broad chest, powerful shoulders and arms, his face was dark, rugged, almost cruel, but not unbecoming.

His sword left close at hand on the waters edge, Athgóth swam out to her, his cold flint eyes softened at the sight of her proud vibrant beauty. There was an open sensuality in Yasma’s eyes as she looked at him. She slid her hands around his neck and kissed him softly on his lips.

“Today brave warrior I shall thank you for saving me from certain doom in the clutches of the devils of Grimthára”, Yasma whispered, “Under the trees on the river bank is where you shall receive your reward my lord.” Athgóth smiled and held her lithe figure close to him.

*************

Dusk drifted down and swathed the bodies of the contented lovers. Yasma’s head lay on Athgóth’s deep chest. She whispered mesmeric tales of the wonders that the fabled cities of Liathórval held. She could feel the ardent beat of his savage heart as her narrative unveiled the mysteries of civilisations and of cultures that were far beyond his barbaric ken. A lust for knowledge and a desire to witness these marvels surged through the crude northern warrior. Wanderlust had conflicted Athgóth, but it also offered him such divine liberation.

As they dressed, Yasma toyed with her dark tresses of hair, running her long elegant fingers through them. She sang an ode of love and bitter partings, a song of sweet remembrance and amorous encounters. Such a sad lament, that for a fleeting moment Athgóth’s heart sank and his thoughts wandered to his distant village. As he concentrated on his sword blade, benevolently sharpening it with a small whet stone, a haunting wave of memories filled his mind. He recalled the towering fanged mountain peaks cutting through heavy mist clouds, soaring high above the vast green forests. He recalled his bretheren, indomitable warriors of the wolf and bear, hunters of stag and boar. He recalled the bloodlust of battle and the nectarous taste of exultant victory. He recalled passionate loves, both won and lost, of strong willed maidens’ and the warmth that their affections yielded.

With a heavy sigh he shook himself from these frail yearnings, such timorous musings should be as far from his mind, as far north as bleak Dáraidia was from him now.

“We best leave soon girl, darkness comes swiftly. The village we seek is but through the trees on the line of the river.” Athgóth commanded. With haste he filled his leather flagon at the waters edge, tightened his belt then grasped Yasma by the hand. They set off along the riverbank. The dying sun flared like a golden flame crown, then vanished behind them and laid itself to rest.

*************

The forest trees became more sparse as they rambled along side the wide clear river. At length, they emerged from the forests edge and out into a lush fragrant meadow, chimney smoke and the thatched roofs of houses could be seen among the trees ahead. As they ventured close to the outskirts of the village two men approached from a nearby orchard. One a mere boy the other older and bearded. Both carried swords and were dressed in brown leather tunics over long robes. Holding his staff aloft the elder man hailed, “Ho! Stranger, what do ye seek here?”

“I am Athgóth of Dáraidia, and my companion is Yasma. Food and shelter for the night is all we desire, we bid no harm to your village.” Athgóth responded, his wary fingers tracing over the hilt of his sword.

“This village is Thólhain, on the border of Guntharók outlander. I am Arfinn the Druid and this lad here is my apprentice Einar. Come, we will take you to the tavern, if it is but food and a roof that you seek.”

Athgóth eyed them with suspicion, yet he grunted an acknowledgement. He sensed little danger from the pair, yet, with the terrible hollowness in his stomach he would gladly accompany the very Elementals of Death in a quest to sate this gnawing hunger.

Thólhain was a small village, the buildings were stoutly built of stone and timber, narrow twisting lanes fanned out between the homes and barns. On the outside edge of the village a tall brick watchtower topped with a wooded platform oversaw the cattle grazing in the sprawling meadows. The villagers gave long looks at the two strangers, this was a remote bordertown, visitors outwith the realm of Guntharók were a rare and curious occurence.

At the end of a twisting cobbled path they came upon the tavern. As they entered the barkeep hailed a greeting to Arfinn and his underling, the companions sat at a great rustic oak table.

“Food, wine and ale barkeep!” Athgóth bellowed, as he slapped bronze coins on the beer stained tabletop.

Laughter and lewd banter filled the rustic room, huge fisted farmers and nubile women sang to the nature god Cernunos and Bracicaca the goddess of ale. Elders sat stone faced supping ale and smoking long clay pipes at the hearth of a roaring fire. Several broad hooded figures stood at the edge of the bar, their glare fixed on the outlander and his companion. A vicious cold stare from Athgóth and a playful tap on his sword hilt soon made them nervously avert their attentions elsewhere.

Athgóth could sense Yasma’s unease in such uncouth surroundings and gave her firm thigh a reassuring squeeze under the table. The serving wench promptly brought large steaming bowls of meat stew and foaming tankards of ale, Arfinn and Einar watched in amusement as the strangers devoured their meal with unbounded relish.

Arfinn swigged from his ale, then wiped the foam from his beard, “You came from the forests of Ghórmgoth, no sane man ventures too deep into that primordial maze, the Forest Gods smiled upon you to emerge from there alive outlander. Demons breed in that eldrich place, abominations lurk and prey in the darkness of subterranean caves. The people of Thólhain fear the forests at night.”

Athgóth responded, with a sense of bleak reality, “Aye that they may Arfinn, but it was a human foe intent on raising a demon god that we faced last eve”. He added, “I killed men for too little gain, I have little desire to enter the realm of Ghórmgoth again.”

“An adventurer then Dáraidian?” Arfinn enquired with a keen interest. “You are far from your northern homeland! We are all simple folk here in Thólhain, farmers and countrymen all. What fortune do you seek in Guntharók lad?”

“We but pass through here, Yasma hails from Zorentis, I intend to get her back there. We will start our trek in the morning.” Athgóth answered then pushed his empty plate aside.

“Oran the barkeep, has rooms here lad, also I am sure that we could find some better garb for you lady Yasma, should you wish?” Arfinn smiled and played with his grey beard.

Yasma nodded with thanks and poured more wine into her chipped glass mug.

“I will send young Einar to fetch you in the morn, I can show you a pathway over the Eastern hills, that will get you on the road to Zorentis.”

Athgóth held his tankard out, as a salute to Arfinn. He quaffed the dregs then called out for more ale.

*************

In their rustic room,on a bed set into a curtained alcove Yasma lay outstretched. Her body tingled from the potent Guntharókian wine. She felt content with a full stomach and a quilt underneath her soft skin. Athgóth stood impassively by the window observing the stragglers and brawlers leaving the tavern and spilling out into the street below. Finally, when all was quiet he relaxed and closed the heavy wooden shutters. He set his sword against the wall next to the bed, then undressed and lay next to his naked companion.

“My kin will pay you well for returning me to Zorentis my lord” Yasma purred.

“I have all the riches I need lying here before me.” Athgóth whispered, as he kissed her pouting lips, “An evening of passion with one such as you is bounty enough.” He caressed her neck, ran his rough hand over her firm breasts, across her hips and down her long smooth thighs. Yasma smiled with delight and drew him to her. Deep into the night, the soft candle light flickered on the walls of the lovers’ chamber.

Outside, a large cloaked figure watched over the streets of Thólhain. He lit his pipe and gazed out onto the moonlit meadows, the soft summer eventide breeze fanned the long grass and wafted the scent of midsummer flowers in bloom. While, far, far beyond the fields, out toward the forest edge, something inhuman and malignant stirred in the undergrowth.

*************

The morning broke. The rising sun warmed the chamber where Athgóth and Yasma lay in a sanguine embrace. They woke, rose and dressed. The night before Athgóth had obtained Yasma a white cotton tunic and leather sandals.

“This is more fitting clothing to a lady such as you girl” Athgóth jested as he threw the garment to her.

Yasma scowled at his teasing, “Not fitting apparel for a noble woman of glorious Liathórval, but a vast improvement to the rag I have been swathed in these last two days!” she proclaimed with an air of highborn dignity.

Young Einar waited patiently outside the tavern, occupying himself by toying with a runestone. Emerging from the doorway Yasma and Athgóth greeted him.
“Hail young lad. Take me to your master, I am keen to make haste” the outlander boomed.
Einar pointed to the end of the village and squeaked “This way, follow me, Arfinn’s home is not far.”

On the edge of the village the druid’s small round stone house stood, surrounded by a dry stone wall, they entered through a large wooden gate. Chickens scattered and a skinny hound bounded over to welcome them. The smell of a fresh lit fire came out through the open door of Arfinn’s abode. The elder was stirring a pot of porrage set over his fireplace. “Ah, tis the outlander and his concubine!” Arfinn beamed, “Please sit, will you eat?”

“Aye, that we will” Athgóth replied, and sat next to Yasma on a low bench next to a small twisted wooden table.
“Your kindness is appreciated elder” Yasma smiled.
Arfinn slopped the gruel into wooden bowls for his guests. Yasma’s delicate tastes only had an appetite for warm milk and honeyed bread. Einar dragged a stool to the table and sat cupping his overflowing milk mug, the delight of sitting next to such a beautiful and exotic woman shone from his young face.

The room was filled with herbs and plants, shelves cluttered with urns and jars containing all matter of strange and unknown mystical artifacts lined the walls. Scrolls and ancient books were stacked high and scattered around the room, and in one corner casting an ever vigilant amber eye over everyone, was a ebony raven, perched on the sill of the solitary window in the room. Set on the wall above the open fireplace, with pride of place was Arfinn’s ornate staff.

From outside they heard the gate open, a voice hailed Arfinn, “Old mage, are you roused?”
Then, in the doorway a hooded figure appeared. He was dressed in a black tunic worn underneath a leather jerkin which did little to hide his tall and burly frame. A short dark beard jutted out from his fierce jaw.
“Thorfinn!” gasped Einar.
The stranger strolled into the house. Athgóth’s hand rested on his sword hilt, he slid forward in his chair ready to strike.
“Steady your sword arm outlander” Arfinn hissed in rage, “He is no enemy of ours.”
The visitor spoke sternly, “I am Thorfinn stranger, defender and warrior of Thólhain. My men and I keep the trade routes safe from thieves and vagabonds.” He took off his long grey cloak and sat on a high backed chair by the fire. He looked deep into the flames and mumbled, “Druid, you know why I am here and you know well the dark day that has befallen us, your magic will be welcome this eve. My scouts have witnessed shadows of darkness gathering in the forest.”
“That I know full well Thorfinn, I feel the creeping dread in my very core”, Arfinn responded. “Are the men at your command prepared?”
“They are old man, they are making their way to Thólhain as we speak, preparations are afoot” Thorfinn sighed. He seemed weary his broad shoulders hunched, yet still the warrior spirit blazed in his clear blue eyes. From his pocket he pulled out a long clay pipe and lit it with a thin burning stick pulled from the fire.
Athgóth coaxed an answer with a scowl. “You talk in riddles here men, what darkness do you speak of?”
“This will be a night of grave danger in Thólhain outlander, Yasma and you should seek supplies and be on your way! It is not safe to be near any village shadowed by the forest this evening!!” snapped Arfinn.
The seer looked ashamed of his outburst and turned away, his hands shook as he poured warm milk into a beaker for Thorfinn.

The druid sat at the table across from his guests. “I will tell you a sorry tale outlander, a tale of a darkness that curses our land.” He took a long breath, and began. “The kingdom of Guntharók was once a mighty power. Five generations ago the warlord Vigrid built an army and empire, he conquered and pillaged, he ruled over Guntharók with an iron fist empowered by cruelty and torture. No man would face him, he had dominion across the land. But he made a mortal enemy in the horned demon Beannach Nimhe. Vigrid’s hunger for land and wealth led to his invasion of the forest lands and into Droch Tir the home of the sub-human Fomoria tribes. Vigrid’s soldiers entered the forests of Ghórmgoth under orders to slay the beast like Fomorai who inhabited there. They slaughtered scores of them and showed no quarter, and among the slain were the horned devil’s own infant children.

Stricken with grief Beannach Nimhe raged a war of revenge, he massed the dark hordes of the underworld, forest devils, water beasts, all manner of strange and hideous creatures crawled up out of the earth at his command. Using the venom that bleeds from Beannach Nimhe’s poisoned horns they tainted every spear, arrow and sword that his dark army weilded. On their march to lord Vigrid’s Keep every living thing in their path was destroyed on their mission of mayhem. On the battlefield of Gowra the two armies met. But the defenders of Guntharók were no match for such a foe. Beannach Nimhe led his hordes on a rampage of destruction on the field of war, warriors were mutilated and devoured where they fell. His victorious dark forces rallied and stormed Vigrid’s Keep.

The dark lord, smashed into Vigrid’s chamber and tore the living heart from the mighty warlord’s chest, hacked the spine from his corpse and with blood stained clawed hands curved, bound and fashioned it into a morbid crown. As he proudly placed in on his black horned head, through twisted yellow fangs he cursed the children of Guntharók for eternity.”
Arfinn’s dark eyes filled with ire and his lips trembled as he continued his tale.
“So Vigrid’s Keep was burned to the ground and the armies of evil returned to the dark forests of Ghórmgoth, crawling back into the pits, barrows and lairs that spawned them. But once every fifty years, close to midsummer, he sends out a horde of vile Fomorai to steal the young children from Thólhain and all the other surrounding villages, hamlets and farms which border on the forest edge. Tis this eve, the night of the full moon, tonight they will come!!”
“That is Beannach Nimhe’s curse on man, that is the curse on Guntharók!” Thorfinn added “We will fight, as we always have, we will make a stand on the meadow. Every woman and child will take refuge in cellars and pits, but we the men of Thólhain will stand our ground.”

Yasma shivered, her eyes were wide with fear, trembling she held Athgóth’s arm tightly.

“That is indeed a tale of woe”, proclaimed a grim faced Athgóth, “I will fight alongside the proud men of Thólhain. I will not flee folk who have shown me nothing but heartiness, I will join you on the battlefield.”

Thorfinn stood up and slapped Athgóth’s broad back, “We thank you warrior, help us send these devils back with their tails between their legs and we shall reward you with what little wealth that we have!”
“I will fight for mercenary gold Thorfinn” Athgóth declared. “But I also fight for glory and for mankind this night, the battlefield has been my destiny since birth. I have been well versed in the ways of war. It will be an honour to aid in the protection of the children of Thólhain.”

*************

The day grew dark, grey clouds formed in the great north skies, rain and thunder were imminent. A wind picked up through the valley and a mighty rumble echoed over the jagged purple hills.

Clad in an iron helm and brown leather tunic, Athgóth Mór of Dáraidia stood in line on the meadow with the scores of men under Thorfinn’s command, these defenders were men of all ages, young and old, soldiers and farmers side by side. All were determined, proud and grim. With axe, spear and sword they stood impassive and courageous.

Arfinn and Einar strode through the deserted village, nothing stirred, no sound, save the faint wailing of children on the wind. Hidden deep in cellars and valts, the women and children of Thólhain cowered in their places of safety, mothers prayed and held infants tight to their bosoms. Yasma was secure in the lower level of the watchtower, several young mothers and their infants sheltered with her. Four vigilant bowmen stood on the parapet above, sharp eyes constantly on the forests edge.

As the hazy sun fell behind the far off mountains, twilight flooded the meadows of Thólhain. Clouds raged above and the heavens opened. Rain, thunder and lightning swept across the valley.

The druid and his charge, made their way to the edge of the village and gazed down over the fields laid out before them. Arfinn walked with purpose, his head tall and his mighty staff held straight and true. He held out his long fingered hand and blessed the warriors in the distance, ‘Garg’n Uair Dhuisgear’ he cried. Thorfinn turned and held his broadsword aloft, he bellowed out loudly over the clash of thunder ‘We have a druid on our side tonight lads, Arfinn has blessed us, If we come undone retreat to the village and regroup, we must preserve our children at all costs!’ The warriors raised their weapons and roared a chorus of anger.

Just on the line of the trees something caught the archers attention, they blew hard on their horns and called out in alarm ‘They come men of Thólhain, they come, great Agrona aid us!’
The trees shook as an army of craven horrors leapt out of the forests’ edge. Scores of hideous creations screamed out from the darkness. Beannach Nimhe’s curse was again unleashed. The men of Thólhain braced themselves, Thorfinn barked orders ‘Stand fast men, preserve your energy for combat, let those hell spawns come to us!’

The Fomorai came thick and fast, tearing across the meadow, yelping and screaming as they came. Brandishing weapon, fang and claw. Athgóth growled, his sword held high in two great fists, his cold steel eyes glared from under his helmet, he growled, ‘Let them come and let us send them back to hades, or perish on these fields of battle!’
Thorfinn stood ready at the centre of his men. They stood strong as the enemy pounded towards them across the fields of long grass. As the evil army fell upon them Thorfinn cried ‘Strike true men, fight for your women, fight for your children, fight for Thólhain!!’

A blistering clash of steel on steel echoed into the night, as the armies crashed together. Man fought beast, foul smelling mis-shapen creatures tearing and gouging, ripping men apart and feasting on their limbs. The men of Hoxa fought bravely, slaying countless vicious Fomorai, piercing their grey green hides with fine tempered blades carved with the protecting runes of Arfinn the druid. Black blood sprayed like oil onto the grim faces of men, red blood ran from the fanged maws of the terrible dark bretheren of Beannach Nimhe. Athgóth stood on a pile of mangled corpses, swinging his blade with precision and fury. Sriking through the hearts and heads of his foes. Thorfinn matched him, the giant man hacked his way through a barrage of attacks, pieces of head and limb flew skyward carved from the great warriors flashing blade.

*************

The battle raged on, the Fomorai outnumbering the Guntharókian’s at least two to one. A huge troll-like Fomorai barged his way to the heat of the combat, a steel mace clenched in his taloned fist. His red eyes burned at the sight of Athgóth, bloodsoaked and mighty, cleaving a hunched deformity’s vile head in two. The troll battled his way through the throng of combat into the centre of the battlefield. Striking both man and Formorai in his haste to get to the slaughterer of his hideous kin. ‘You! Man!’ the beast bellowed at Athgóth ‘You, shall die now, I shall feast on your bones, this eve!’ The outlander jumped back and crouched, like a wolf ready for his opponents attack. Thorfinn appeared at the Dalridian’s side, ‘Tis an enemy for two warriors I think lad’ Thorfinn panted.
‘That it is old man’ grinned Athgóth ‘Take the legs out from under this brute, and I shall put an end to his jabbering!’
Thorfinn ran forward and kept low, dodging the swinging blow of the giant’s mace. He sliced his broadsword hard and deep into the creature’s leg, his blade snapping in two as it sliced tendon and crunched hard into rock-like bone. The troll cried out and fell forward, supporting his bulk on two great fists. Athgóth leapt high, landing on the monster’s broad back, then brought his blade straight down into the beast’s humongous head, embedding it deep in the skull. It roared like a wounded bull and staggered to its feet. Thorfinn rolled up on to his feet and out of harms way. Athgóth pulled his weapon free and sprang from the mortally wounded behemoth, with a thunderous groan it crashed to the ground, in its wake flattening a score of squealing Fomorai into spurts of bloody gore.

In the disorientation of combat, a gang of gaunt lithe Fomorai had broken away from the field and advanced towards the village. Arfinn raised the alarm and the bowmen let fly a hail of arrows, sending a swift death from above to the gibbering inhuman wretches below. Some broke through and raced to the watchtower, the scent of young human in their snouts. They hacked at the heavy wooden door with axes and blades, raking the iron hinges apart with talons as sharp as razors. As more of the creatures advanced the bowmen above targeted the twisted Fomorai as fast as they could, heavy steel tipped arrows slamming into heads, eyes and torsos, stopping them dead.

Athgóth saw the commotion, “Yasma!” he gasped and ran across the field towards the sieged tower. His powerful strides pushed him fast over the grass. He saw the watchtower door splinter, the creatures were breaking through. Vile bodies slithered through the gaps in the shattered door. The startled women and infants screamed and huddled together, cornered and terrified. Athgóth bolted towards them, he ran as fast as he could, rage swelled within him, the beasts were almost upon them. Athgóth stopped and threw his dagger at the closest fiend, it sunk into its awful head. “Here, foul demons! Here, fight me!” he bellowed. They stopped and wheeled towards him, Athgóth clashed into them, slicing and cleaving the looming snareling ghouls as he went. Green fangs and ebony claws raked and split his leather tunic, desperately he spun round to meet them from all sides, his blade hacked and smashed into mis-shapen flesh and bone. Black putrid blood spouted skyward as yelps and barks rang into the stormy night.

Across the cobbled street Arfinn and Einar ran to his aid, swords ready. Athgóth dashed into the watchtower to the aid of the women and infants. He stood fast, his sword pierced each horrific ghoul that attempted to snatch at the terrified children cowering behind him. Arfinn thumped his staff to the cobbled ground, a terrible thunder forming in his eyes “Garg’n Uair Dhuisgear!” he bellowed and a bright bolt of energy sprang from his staff and shot from beast to beast, burning through them like a spear of light. Their twisted burned corpses instantly fell to the ground like lifeless dolls.

A great mystic storm now brewed in the heart of the druid Arfinn, he slowly turned to the battlefield, arms outstretched. Raising his glowing staff skyward he commanded the storm above, “Great Agrona goddess of war, unleash your pure cleansing light on these dark hearted harbringers of evil. Aid me to clear the land of my brethren of this black pestilence!”
With these words the heavens erupted, twisting dark skies boiled and churned, bolts of raw lightning crashed to earth incinerating the Fomorai horde where they stood. They screamed and cried out in awe as a holy light as bright as the sun scorched them black and melted the very flesh from their bones. The battlefield lit up as scores of Fomorai ran in fear, their grey skinned hides ablaze as they tried in vain to retreat to the safety of the forest of Murigen.

Across the meadow, the black smoldering ashen remains of the vile Fomorai danced heavenwards, pulled up and away by the turbulent winds, spinning higher and higher like some dreadful swarm on the breeze, twisting ever upwards until nothing more could be seen of them. The grey clouds vanished on the wind and a proud moon shone down on the fields of Thólhain. Thorfinn and his surviving men cried out a victory chorus to the star filed sky above. The triumphant rattle of weapons on shields rang out like a bell and the good women and children of Thólhain cautiously emerged from their hiding places and walked with trepidation out into the cool night.

Yasma ran into the arms of Athgóth, she pulled off his helmet, gazed into his dark, cruel face for a moment and kissed him deeply.
“Tomorrow we set for Galatia?!” she begged, sobbing hard into his chest.
“That we will girl” he growled, “that we will”.

*************

The sun was proud over the meadows as the outlander Athgóth and the noblewoman Yasma hailed a farewell to the people of Thólhain. Joyously Thorfinn, Arfinn and Einar thanked them with gifts of food, and supplies.
“It may be that I return one day to the fields of Guntharók to test fine Dáraidian steel against the hellspawn Beannach Nimhe himself!” Athgóth jested.
“Glorious Agrona smiles upon you warrior” Thorfinn beamed, slapping Athgóth across his broad back “The proud soldiers of Guntharók would heartily aid you in such a quest!”

The warriors clasped forearms, forced a grim grin at each other and made their farewell.

In the halation of dawn’s warm light, Yasma observed bereft widows and orphans scouring the battlefield, eager to find and pray for their fallen loved ones. She mused that in times to pass, songs of the valiant men of Thólhain would be sung and their valour never forgotten.

As they marched away from the village Yasma shuddered, she hoped that the journey home would be much less abhorrent than of late. Rising up and over a grass covered hill, the fertile and vast lands of Guntharók lay before them and in the distance, as far as human eyes could see, the purple Eastern Mountains stood proud. Yasma held Athgóth’s arm and kept close as they marched down into the blooming, scented grasslands. Ahead of them was the pathway over the Eastern hills that set off on the road to Zorentis,

*************

Far, far beyond the fields, underground, in the very dark heart of the forest sanctuary of Ghórmgoth, encased in ebony crystal subterranean lair, deep in a vast, dank and hollow cavern a seething demon snarled with rage. High on his throne of black burnt human bones, Beannach Nimhe’s mind boiled with dreams of vengance.

*************

Wanderlust

Is this village not enough for a chieftan’s son
The warmth of our clan is around you
Is this village not enough that your heart should run
The heritage of our clan is within you

Is the valley not enough for a warrior’s sword
The land of our bretheren lays around you
Is the valley not enough while you are my lord
The memory of our bretheren is within you

Are the mountains not enough for a wanderer as you
Our ancient gods watch all around you
Are the mountains not enough as the winds sing true
Our ancient gods call within you

Is my love not enough for a savage youth
When the light of my heart shines around you
Is my love not enough the purest of truth
When the light of my heart fades within you

Then go uncage your wayward soul, wander free of here
For now this empty land is not enough for a woman to shed a tear

The Awakening Of Ahrazóth

Set high in the mountains on the borders of Yarazón, like a phantasmal apparition emanating from the rugged grey rock, loomed the Temple of the Grimthára. It’s mighty barbed towers, shards of dark hewn stone, pierced high into the ashen skies. A cloud of grotesque bats wheeled vigilantly above, sending echoing shrieks out from the perpertual darkness.

In one tower, high above all the others, a light flickered ominously from the narrow green glass windows. In his chambers, Ragana, high priest of the Grimthára Order scoured ancient tomes and parchments with serpentine eyes. Arched over an ebony table by the light of a crimson lamp, his long skeletal fingers traced across crumbling paper and his thin lips mouthed the texts from manuscripts and grimoires now long forgotten by mortal man.

The corruption of the dark arts had taken their toll on him, his hue was as one undead, his haunted face a mask of great suffering and pain, the anguish of his malignant soul tormented him, his was an agony that no man should endure. Yet for all his afflictions he continued his quest. A search to discover the key to unleashing something powerful, something that had not stalked the lands of man in aeons, something annihilative, yet life-giving to some.

Now, finally after months of study, the sorcerer had found the incantation that he seeked. His black eyes blazed with fiendish delight and a ghoulish leer of exultation manifested on his gaunt face. He slumped back into his ornate throne, raised his head skyward and praised, “Soon my lord, soon you shall be released from oblivion and resurrected into the realms of mankind, this I swear to thee majestic Ahrazóth!”

Ragana clapped his hands together in morbid glee and cried out to his servant. Hastily, a black robed figure crept through the door, his face etched with the scars and branding of his ruthless masters’ displeasure.
“You dreg of nature, make haste”, the high priest snapped, his mouth turned in a sneer of triumph.
“Set my orders into action. We leave this very eve, to our affairs in the East, then we head North to the forest lands!”

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Yasma stood on the edge of her moonlit balcony, sultry dark eyes gazing beyond the deep blue horizon. The street lamps of sprawling Zorentis laid out below her mirrored the sharp stars above. The candles were burning low, the wine no longer sweet. Her heart was calling out to her lover, he had left her in a slumber, a warm satisfied dream. Her mind wandered, grasping at caged memories, memories as precious as gemstones, yet their sparkle by now had started to fade.

The summer night’s breath played with her glorious dark hair, dancing it around her proud face. Turning and gliding to the open glass doorway of her chamber her naked body was hallowed by the soft evening light, every curve bathed and every divine detail caressed in an ethereal glow.

As night, the thief, held back the dawn, a tear kissed her lips.

As the night gently faded and dawn woke over Zorentis, the exquisite lady Yasma lounged resplendently in her opulent chamber. Draped on her ornate bed, her soft lithe hand toyed with her raven hair. The young noblewoman listened intently to her proud captive songbird, darting to and fro on the roof of it’s open cage. His wonderful lilting song matched the radience of his delicate and magnificent plumage.

Her dreamy and sensuous mood broke sharply as her gaze caught sight of movement outside her balcony door. She roused herself with a start, called out to her servants and hastily slipped into a silk robe. Without further warning, in a hail of stained glass, the balcony doors burst open and she was confronted by two shaven headed men wrapped in black robes. Screams and shadows filled the chamber, rough hands and rending nails gripped and pulled her. She kicked and lashed out with all of her strength, but to no avail, fingers clamped hard onto her pristine neck and dainty wrists. Suddenly, a green vapor was blown into her gasping mouth, her breath burned and a numbness seized her body, she stumbled and fell. Yasma slowly closed her eyes and embraced the spiraling darkness.

The panicked songbird took flight, sped out of the shattered balcony doors and swooped up high above the spires of Zorentis and disappeared into the silent brightening sky, lost forever in the land of Liathórval.

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Athgóth Mór pushed through the night. The forest was thick, humid and black. He moved fluidly across lush ferns and around sweeping moss covered vines. The forest of Ghórmgoth was an ancient place, primordial, remote and near impenetrable. All around, colossal trees, soaring silent sentinels, blacked out the high full moon.

Several hard hours treking on foot had brought him into the heart of this unforgiving place. Yet through the murk, gleaming like steel, Athgóth’s keen hunters eyes sought a path. His muscular body was clad in a dull red loincloth topped with a broad leather belt edged with grey wolf fur, torcs and armlets adorned his powerful arms. A heavy broadsword hung by his side. Strapped over his shoulder a cloth bundle contained provisions and water. He moved with the ease of a wild animal across the arduous terrain.

At length, he came to a clearing. In its centre a vast black stone temple, an eternal relic to a primeval civilisation. It’s crude block like structure had been devoured by time, serpentine tree roots split through the lower sections and bright green and yellow lichen embellished the archaic exterior. A solitary beam of moonlight cut through the heavy forest canopy highlighting the rough pyramid structure. This was the temple the wanderer seeked, in legend a place of worship, built by wretched slaves to Ahrazóth the Forgotten God. Athgóth’s intention was to find what treasures lay within. He had heard tales of precious stones and golden tributes brought here to the altar of the demon deity.

Suddenly, Athgóth heard a sound, a slight whisper on the still night air, from out of the forest a faint voice betrayed the orators presence. Instinctively he crouched low, face down onto the forest floor. Crawling behind a mighty fallen tree, he listened and watched intently as the cloak of dusk enveloped him.

A troop of figures slowly emerged from out of the trees and marched forward into the clearing in front of the ominous temple. From their torchlight, Athgóth counted four guards armed with swords and nine black robed priests, one of which stood out from the others. A tall lean sharp faced man, draped in a flowing silk purple cloak, gold belts and pendants hung from his waist and neck, an indulgently ornate gem encrusted gauntlet shone brightly on his right hand. He held a distressed woman by the forearm and pulled her along beside him, she sobbed uncontrollably. The men were silent as they assembled into a semi circle around the front of the temple. Two guards stood at either end of the congregation and with a sense of purpose, the tall leader stood proud in the centre.

“Were these men mere treasure hunters like him? Or more likely their intentions were something far more sinister and blasphemous here this eve!” Athgóth pondered. Tales of human sacrifice in this forest had spread even to Athgóth’s remote clan some weeks north from here in hibernal Dáraidia. He turned his attention to the woman, her flimsy robe was torn and her limbs were bruised, she tried in vain to free herself from the high priest’s talon like grip. As she struggled, he struck her hard twice across the face, she reeled, spun on her heel, then slumped in submission at her captors feet. A wolfish grimace formed on Athgóth’s rugged face, his steel grey eyes blazed.

The high priest raised his head and arms skyward and initiated an incantation. At first a low indecipherable murmur, building in volume and rhythm into a mesmeric chant, the other priests joined in the unholy choir. The four guards looked uneasy. Then, even from his hidden position, Athgóth caught sight of an eldritch glow forming in the centre of the monolith. It pulsated and grew into a fabulous crimson heavenly light, turning the trees and forest floor a luminous bloody red. From tree to tree the Northman slowly moved closer, releasing his sword into the warm heavy air. He kept out of sight, watching incredulously as the light gradually dissolved to reveal a high archway leading into the structure. The stone arch shimmered like dull silver where the strange light had touched it. The high priest kicked the woman to her feet and led his procession through the opening and into the gloom inside. The chanting and torchlight ebbed away as they ventured deeper inside the foreboding temple. The clearing fell silent again.

His provisions concealed within a tree stump, Athgóth edged cautiously towards the temple. As he crept closer to the entrance, he was aware that nothing stirred here. The night owls had fallen silent, the soft summer evening breeze was perfectly still. There was something uncanny about this place. As he slid through the entrance the ancient aura of aeons old sorcery hung in the air, he sensed that this place was accursed, ‘What arcane deeds of devilry have came to pass here?’ Athgóth pondered. A cold barbed shiver of superstition ran over him, yet he gritted his teeth and plunged headlong into the waiting gloom.

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There was no sign of the high priest nor his cohorts in the chamber that opened up before Athgóth. It was a large long room, completely dark but for shafts of moonlight that cut through vast cracks in the stone structure. Ruined statues of Fomorian horrors lined the sides of the chamber, they were split and twisted, forged into the intruding roots from the forest outside. It seemed that even the mighty trees were trying to drag this supernatural place down and push it deep underground where it belonged. Athgóth stopped suddenly, the creak of a door hinge alerted him, swiftly, he darted behind one of the statues, someone or something was heading into the chamber from the far side.

Two of the burly guards appeared through a large door and bolted it behind them, then set their torches into sconces on the wall, then produced a skin of wine and shared it between them. They laughed, joked and leered at tales of whores and tavern brawls, their boorish banter echoed around the hollow chamber. Athgóth had been patient long enough. He must venture further into the temple, enough time had been wasted this night. Wherever the high priest was, was the source of any riches that could be found, either on him or with some torturous persuasion the location of them could be divulged from him. Athgóth prowled out from behind the craven effigies and strode out into the chamber, he faced the shocked guards. He stood tall, sword in hand, glaring intently at his opponents.

“By the entrails of Humagor! Tis’ a demonic statue come to life!”, one guard spluttered on a mouthful of wine.
“Nay! A filthy wayward thief in the night more like!, come to rob us blind have you outlander?” his companion retorted, slowly drawing his sword and pacing to the side. “Are you lost stranger? Ha! You picked the wrong temple for shelter this eve!”
The guards cautiously advanced towards Athgóth, never once taking their eyes from him.
“I, Moravik and Youlek here, are no mere bodyguards’ he hissed. ‘We are seasoned full grown fighting men! Soldiers of the Grimthára Order, veterans of the Volar-Baru war!”.
Athgóth stood impassive, he flexed his great arms, took a more comfortable grip on his sword and smiled contently. He was a killer of no comparison, he had caused monumental sadness and grief to many a mother, wife and child. He had slain countless men in battle, yet was still young, only twenty five winters old, raised and trained from birth by his Dáraidian clan in the skills of hunting and combat. Warfare was in his blood. Soldiers of the Grimthára Order or not, two men would die this night.

The guard named Moravik lunged forwards, Athgóth effortlessly dodged the attack, then, with impossible speed slashed his sword hard into his opponents exposed neck, then spinning low he met his second assailant with a rasping blade straight through his chest to the hilt. The dying man gurgled to his nebulous gods and slowly slid down Athgóth’s body onto his cool marble resting place. Athgóth turned his attention to Moravik who was flailing on the floor, desperately clutching his neck. His breathing was heavy and shallow, blood poured from him, he twitched and his eyes dimmed. A search of the bodies, revealed coins and a finely crafted dagger, it’s hilt carved into the effigy of a wild beast. The powerful Dáraidian readied himself, then made his way towards the large dark oak door which had been guarded so ineptly. From beyond the door a woman’s shrill cry for mercy rang out and echoed through the chambers of Ahrazóth’s temple.

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Athgóth unbolted the heavy wooden door and opened it slightly, it led down a wide corridor to a large double door, hideously constructed of burned black, grinning human skulls. The heady aroma of incense and fragrant smoke filled the dank air, Athgóth snorted and darted across the floor towards the macabre portal. It was unlocked, a tapestry had been drawn across it from within the chamber. He crept inside, gently pushing the door just enough to let him gain access. Moving with the agility and grace of a natural hunter he kept to the shadows, tight along the stone wall of the chamber.

In the centre of the room, the white naked unconscious form of the woman could be made out in the gloom, she was bound to a great black stone altar set upon a stepped dais, the high priest loomed above her, his arms outstretched. From a large circular pit behind the altar, flames licked up into the room, The praying acolytes knelt face down around the edge of the pit. A haze of black candles and burning lamps offered little light into the somber room. Once more the priests chanted, ancient, mystical, diabolical words. Words in a language that Athgóth did not recognise and had little desire to decipher. Writhing in an intoxicated rapture the cloaked figures raised up, arms skyward around the chasm of fire. The leader cried out, his hissing voice tainted with venom, ‘Affinity of the Grimthára Order rejoice! For tonight, this very eve, our lord and master shall return to us from the Otherworld! With a taste of regenerating virtuous blood virtue all powerful Ahrazóth, the forgotten god, the dreaming god, shall awake!’ The priests cried ecstatically, contorting their bodies and saluting the flames.

Honour and hatred raged in the Dáraidia’s mighty chest, no innocent would die tonight to appease any foul hell spawn and his fawning worshippers, not while there was breath in him. Cautiously venturing further into the chamber, he saw no sign of the remaining two guards, there were many adversaries hither, but he still had the element of surprise in his favour.

The chanting reached a cresendo and suddenly stopped, silence hung in the air. The flames in the pit turned to a pure white glow then an emerald green. The high priest cried out, “Brothers, our call to the wondrous Ahriman has been heard, he hungers life! Only I, Ragana, High Priest of the Grimthára can open the gateway to our glorious and noble god! Free yourself from your otherworldly dimension my lord, join us!!”
With these words, the priest’s gauntlet fired into a glowing rainbow of colour, visible rings of energy pulsed from the sorceror’s out stretched claw like hand, his face contorted into a rapturous scowl. Ragana directed the bracelet towards the great blazing pit below him, bursts of twisting tendrils of bright light shot into the leaping flames, causing it to spin and turn like a living entity. “‘Behold! Our lord Ahrazóth reborn!” Ragana cried in exaltation.

Athgóth began to see a shape forming in the centre of the flaming light. A hulking elemental figure was transforming from the fires, something semi human, a beast, with a huge broad featureless head, long spined limbs twisted out of the flames. It was an image that belonged more in a fevered madman’s nightmare, than in the mind of a fully awake mortal. The woman stirred, her disbelieving eyes stared incredulous at the seething vision of horror appearing before her. Her delicate face became a portrait of absolute fear, she sharply took in a breath and screamed.
“Now! noble blood for life great Ahrazóth! Blood for life!” wailed Ragana. Leering over his petrified captive a long silver dagger appeared in his left hand, his arm raised high and aimed to strike at her heaving naked chest.

Bursting from his hiding place with the speed of an attacking wolf Athgóth sprang into action, “Ho, Sorcerer!” he bellowed. The high priest’s head spun to witness who had disturbed his vile intentions, a slice from the warrior’s blade sent the dagger from out of his grasp and scuttling across the polished stone floor and a hammer fist pounded hard in the face sent Ragana off his feet and sprawling on the floor his cloak billowing as he went. Sparks cascaded as Athgóth’s blade cut the bindings that held the terrified girl. She stumbled from the altar and scampered behind her saviour.
“What is happening?” she sobbed. “What is this place?”
“This is a vile temple of death, but it shall not be our tomb, not while I have life in me and a blade in my fist. What is your name girl?” Athgóth growled.
Gasping, she cried out, “I am Yasma” and cowered into her liberators broad back, her wrists and ankles bled from her cruel bonds.

The flaming entity reared up in front of the warrior, a gaping mouth materialised on the vast head, bellowing out frustration at the denial of its blood tribute. The blazing maelstrom twisted higher into the chamber, reaching the ornate age old timber beams which crossed the vaulted ceiling, then poured down onto bone dry crumbling tapestries adorning the walls, instantly they burst into flame. The baying priests broke from their state of delusion, they were now alert to the intruders presence. With demented eyes ablaze in the emerald light they guardedly crept around the pit towards the warrior.

Athgóth met them face on, the unarmed priests attempts at an attack was cut short by a flashing blade. The skillfully forged Dáraidian broadsword wreaked havoc, slicing through flesh and smashing through bone, organs ruptured and ribcages split in two, one by one they perished at the great swordsman’s swift hand. The final panicked priest launched over the altar in a bid to escape the bloodshed, in an instant, Athgóth grabbed his flowing robe with his free hand and hauled the priest back and threw him into the raging flame beast. The body instantly turned bone white then burst into a spray of ash and dust.

“Outlander!” a cry rang out. Athgóth wheeled to see Ragana on his feet, blood poured from his nose and mouth, Yasma was clasped rigid to him, his clawed fingers tight on her throat, from some unseen hiding place his two remaining guards had appeared and flanked him, both fearful of the inferno raging behind the bloodsoaked avenger.
“For your outrage you shall endure a new dimension in pain this night, you will suffer the venom of a thousand serpents coursing through your veins!” Ragana sneered. “There shall be a sacrifice to the great Ahrazóth this eve. Guardsmen, slay him! Then ready the sacred altar, the ceremony must be concluded!”

Heavy swords in hand the guards advanced, grim and determined. Athgóth leaned back and braced himself on the stone altar, he was ready for battle, his blood pulsed hard in his temples, his stout heart beat like a war drum in his deep chest. Recklessly he leapt forward, sword singing as it swung over his head and crashed down onto one guard’s helm, splitting it in two and cleaving the skull beneath. The blow was dealt with such force that the man died instantly, the body landed limply, the head fell apart, discharging a burst of mashed brain and gore. The second guard struck, blades clashed, Athgóth kicked the man back, then, with hilt in two hands carved his steel straight up his opponents torso, from groin to neck. Steaming entrails dropped out into the horrified guard’s hands, he fell to his knees, dropped onto his side and moved no more.

Athgóth could feel the heat of the unearthly raging flame burning behind him, smoke and ash started to fill the room. The roof began to crumble and as the ashen beams began to give way, rubble fell like rain, disintegrating onto the unforgiving stone floor. His bloodstained face glowering, Athgóth prowled towards the sorcerer.
“The wench must die, an appeasement of virtuous blood must be made, or my lord will perish! He cannot survive in the oblivion of two dimensions! Already he has weakened!” Ragana ranted.
“Give the girl to me sorcerous dog and I will make your death swift!” commanded Athgóth.
With distain the high priest cried out to his deity “Mighty Ahrazóth, I shall not fail you!”. He grasped a fistful of Yasma’s hair and pulled her down to obedience. He then raised his serpentine right arm and again eerie life sparked in the gold and gemstones of the uncanny metal artifact wrapped around his wrist. Weird spectral lights flared and shot out, a bolt of pure energy hit Athgóth. It spread like a poison, it ran under his skin, seared deep into his trembling body, enflaming muscle and bone. The vicious glow encircled him, dragging him down, a burning torment clawed at his very soul. Valiantly the outlander fought the agony, determination lined his face, his teeth gritted and his sinews reached bursting point. But he began to fade, his blade slipped from his shaking fist, his eyes dimmed, the room stared to spin, his iron will began to shatter. Athgóth was on his knees.

“Beg before my divine lord infidel! Did you think that Ragana was as brittle and weak as his acolytes? I have dark power at my disposal, a power that only the occult arts can provide, aeons of mystical enlightenment flow through my being, I will conquer and I will walk with gods!” incensed the sorcerer, his face face twisted into a devilish mask of fervor. Another intense barrage of radiance propelled from the mystical talisman, the warrior was paralysed, his spirit tormented, yet still the fallen Dáraidian did not cry for mercy.

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The lady Yasma had given up all hope, her mind and body numb, glazed disbelieving eyes observed her liberator tortured before her. Was this where her young life came to an abrupt end? Since her capture, she had endured countless traumas. Over the last four days her sheltered world had been shocked to the core. The arc of violence and terror aimed at her had fractured the noble woman’s dignified sensibilities into a thousand shards of bitter grief. Then she saw the silver dagger, just at her feet, the very same blade that was earlier aimed for her heart. Courage and wrath filled her breast, her fingertips found the weapon and she grasped the hilt in her tiny fist. Yasma steeled herself, then leapt up, driving the blade deep into the high priests throat. Ragana fell to his knees, gasping for breath, his concentration was shattered, his hand lowered, the spell broken.

Ahrazóth roared. The ground shook, great tremors cleft the floor apart unleashing long plumes of raging flame that spewed up and out into the devastated chamber. Yasma, thrown off her feet by the quake was rising, Athgóth staggered to her and held her close.
“What hell has been unleashed this night warrior?!” she gasped.
He did not answer, he shook his mane of dark brown hair and grasped his broadsword from the debris covered marble. Athgóth stood upright, his muscles ached and his skin was torn in a dozen places, but to his surprise his vitality swiftly flowed back through his body. His numb lips parted “You adore that hell spawn so much priest?! Then let me unite you with your filthy god in the Otherworld!”.

Ragana kicked and squealed at the mighty adventurer lumbered towards him. With his finely honed Dáraidian sword clasped in two fists Athgóth struck. The blade cleft Ragana’s gauntlet and forearm in two. The talisman destroyed, it’s gems atomised in a shower of illuminated crystal that cascaded down onto the agonised sorcerer. Whatever unearthly power that metal gauntlet possessed was vanquished.
“Die you venomous reptile!” barked Athgóth and stamped his sandaled foot down hard and sharp on Ragana’s neck and head. A red mist of revenge descended within the warrior’s soul, his frustration of almost perishing at the hand of the sorcerer erupted into a brutal and berserk revenge. He continued his savage onslaught until he heard spine and skull splinter and crack, the high priest’s face was now nothing more than a bubbling mire of gore. Yasma turned and averted her eyes.

With haste Athgóth grasped the gold belts and amulets that adorned the high priest and shoved them into his belt. Then high over his head he threw the twisted limp body into the furious flame. It incinerated in a flash of green light, the scorched black skeleton twisting in the torrid fire like a macabre puppet. A supernatural dread clawed over Athgóth’s hide as he witnessed tentacles of unnatural flame tearing Ragana’s remains apart, then vanishing into a cloud of black smoking remnants as the entity of Ahrazóth revolved down into the void, down deep into the Otherworld that spawned him.

A thunderous tortured howl burst forth from the pit as a blinding white light exploded upwards into the chamber, splitting the high ceiling wide open and flaring out into the dawning skies. Then, from the very depths of the earth a monumental rumble shook the chamber violently and the shattered roof began to collapse and fall groundwards.

Without hesitation Athgóth swept up Yasma by her slender waist and flew headlong from the devastation. They ran swiftly back through the corridor and outer chamber, through the arched doorway and out to the forest clearing, a vortex of destruction exploded behind them. The inferno raged like a colossal funeral pyre. A tempest of heat, smoke, flame and light sent the temple crashing down deep into the earth. The surrounding mighty forest trees shuddered as if in adulation, then they were still.

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From a distance Athgóth deemed safe, they stopped and observed the burning ruin.
“Nothing could survive such devastation, not even a god! By the Goddess Beira I pray that temple has become a grave!” Athgóth growled.

Retrieving the hidden cache, they stumbled to a nearby knoll sheltered by low overhanging trees, wearied and breathless, they collapsed on the lush warm grass.

At length, the grim adventurer spoke, ‘I am Athgóth Mór of Dáraidia, you saved me back there girl, I owe you a debt of gratitude. Rest here a while Yasma, you may find some solace from the events that you have endured this eve.’ He offered her water from a small leather flagon. The cloth wrapping that contained the provisions made a makeshift garment to cover Yasma’s trembling body.

Calm from the heat of battle, only now Athgóth could appreciate the woman lying at his side, her shapeliness and magnificent beauty captivated him. She told him of the events that had befallen her over the last few days, of how the Grimthára Order were becoming a terror to the people of Zorentis, abduction and sacrifice had spread like wildfire. He vowed to return her home.
“I passed a village a days march to the west of here. Where I will happily trade all these golden spoils for a bowl of hot broth and a tankard of ale”, uttered Athgóth between gulps of water. Exhausted, Yasma moved close to him and warmed herself against his skin, Athgóth put his heavy arm around her and let her slumber.

As dawn offered a haze of light across the deep forest of Ghórmgoth, a fresh breeze sang through the trees and the rising morn sun shone on them.

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