/lit/ - Literature

Before the björn and the elfs a cabal of sorcerers and sorceresses gathered, encircling Kira. They began chanting fell words of dark and forgotten magicks that had been better left forgotten. The sight of ten thousand enemies could not put fear in the hearts of Asgeir or his drengr björn, but the words pouring forth from the lips of these Men made even the mighty king uneasy.

“They corrupt Elleswhaer herself with these words,” Dafydd said in a low voice. “Whatever comes for to answer their call must be slain, lest we all perish.”

Asgeir nodded and tightened his grip on his hammer.

The sun climbed from the far east to the center of the sky before the Men finished their invocations. One by one the sorcerers fell to the ground dead, except for Kira. Their bodies became immolated in the flames that formed the gate from the battlefield to the Iron Throne, a site of power many weeks away as the horseman rides.

Asgeir Thunderpaw knew no fear and stared directly into the gate and beheld Vadik the Black, the sorcerer king and ruler of the Iron Throne. He was a towering Man, nearly as tall and broad as Asgeir himself. The sorcerer was encased in bronze armor adorned with spikes and images of fiends, dragons, and skulls. From beneath the gaps in the armor flowed a reddish light as though Vadik was forged from the very fires of Hell. His eyes glowed red with malice and thoughts of destruction, but their gaze failed to strike terror in the heart of Asgeir.

“Come forth and face me sorcerer!” he demanded of Vadik.