Crom and the Lich

In Days Past...

Crom felt the wall pulse slightly under his touch, and it sent a warm glow through his wrist, and down his arm. The trickle of water down the slimy walls was no help in this unhallowed place, as they crept stealthily down the rough hewn corridor. The glow of the moss and under foliage was almost a crimson red, and everything took on a hue of red or green, casting shadows upon his rock chiselled face, containing tiny demons at every point. Ahead of them, some where near by, was the Lich.

He gazed nervously back at his companions who followed his every step. The bard, a man not born of the wild, Finn, looked more nervous than any of them. Behind him were two Knights, one plated in dark steel of the Northern realms, the other, a man of some unknown origin, wore armour so heavy and fortified that it would take a whole Palace of smithies to break through it. He could not see their faces, but he knew that they felt the same.

Gently, he edged along the warm wall, and Crom drew his great sword from his shoulders, glancing up and down the tunnel cautiously. They had reached a corner, and behind that 90 degrees of hewn rock could be any monstrosity. His mind played games with him, and the thoughts were unbearable. He was wide travelled, but nothing could prepare him for what they were about to see.

Slowly, with eyes near-closed, he peered round the corner, his nostrils assaulted with the stench of death and decay. He gestured the others to follow, as he stepped silently down the corridor to the large opening.

All about them, pin cushioned with arrows, or impaled on thick wooden spikes, lay the bodies of the villagers, Guards, men, Women, Children... all. His disgust was matched by the Bard, who wretched and vomited his guts over the blood slimed floor. Lidless eyes glared up at them, and they felt every scream, every tender morsel of pain. They looked ahead.

Ahead of them was a door, mighty and monolithic in its frame. It lay ajar, and behind it they could hear the cackling of a mad man, the sinister tapping of bone, and the heavy padding of rotted feet opon cold stone. They knew what horrors lay ahead of them, as Crom readied his sword, and the two Knights knelt on knees, their swords pointed into the hard stone, heads hung low.

They began to pray, and though he was against the Gods for their ability to use magic out of his power, he felt compelled to mutter a few words of his own... no matter how out of place.

“From the cradle to the grave, no matter how shallow it may be, I pray to you Gods, the spirit of the North men, to watch my blade and guide it true. Many a fellow warrior, in body or in spirit, has fallen here, and I pray to this day, that I may free their souls from this rotted unrest. Here me Gods, let me live in victory or die in valour, let me strike in strength or fall of tire, let me cut a swathe so bloody and relentless that in years to come I will be known as Crom the bloody, Crom the angry, Crom the Fearless, a man of a worthy fight, a Warrior of true grit, a forsaker of magic, a man of strength...”

* * * * * * * * *

The door burst open, and with roars of rage, the four of them charged into the fray, teeth gritted, and blades high. It was a good day to die, a day to set free the spirit from the flesh.

The living dead were taken wholly by surprise, for as the Lich raised his bony limb to drop a sacrificial blade into the heart of a young lass, a sword, larger than most men, embedded itself into wall near by, taking with it most of his hand. He screamed with unholy rage, and looked to the archer of such a weapon. There was Crom, already running to recover his Blade, his rippling muscles a power house of brutish and lupine strength. The Lich wasted no time in preparing his vile spell.

The two Knights, men of combat, took to the Zombies with glee, as they cut through the soft fleshed ranks of rank and fetid corpses. Behind their visors of steel were images of gritted teeth and wild eyes, as they let themselves be consumed by the rage of battle.

The bard, free from the combat in Croms swathe, began to cast his own spell, his hands darting in complex motions, desperately trying to outdo the Lich. Before the Bard could finish off his spell, a force so powerful, it could have kncoked a wall to dust, came rushing forth, knocking Crom of his sturdy feet, and charging the air with unholy power, bolstering the Undead , and forcing the two Knights to double their already desperate efforts.

Shaking the lag from his head, Crom leapt to his feet with the grace of a cat, and forced himself to take up the pace he had held earlier. From behind his back he produced a long hafted mace, and hoisted himself with one large step onto the Alter. The girl, naked ‘cept for small piece of cloth screamed as she snapped from her trance like daze, the horror renewed in her waking mind.

The bard finished his spell, and sent a shot of dazzling flame towards the Undead priest, it flew true, but the empowered Lich shrugged off the effect of the blazing heat like a pebble to the earth, and began anew to cast yet another spell so vile, its one hand hardly impeding the casting of such potent sorcery.

Crom was on him with haste, smashing the mace left and right in great arcs of power that not even a steel door could stand against. But so strong was the Magic in the Liches frail corpse, that the mace bounced off harmlessly from the Lich’s dried hide. Striking back with a bone clutched fist, Crom was sent spinning backwards, head over heels to land heavily on the floor, narrowly avoiding a broken neck.

By now, the two Knights were at the foot of the Altar, sending bone and rotting flesh out over head and to the floor, leaving the cold stone sloppy and unstable, their once shining armour now flecked with dark coloured ichor and rancid corpse juices. The smell was unbearable.

The Lich walked menacingly towards the Bard, who finished his next spell, and took a step back. His spell may well have smited the Unholy Lich, were it not for the blood soaked floor. His step not only carried one foot further away, but with a girlish yelp, also sent him sprawling onto his back, to stop but a few feet from Croms prone form.

With a raised arm, a Sword of some force connected with the Lich’s head, and the blow almost knocked the crown through its dry skull. But the thing turned to face the Knight who dealt the blow, and with the flick of his wrist, sent a bolt of green, shimmering energy, thick with vile power, out, twisting like a circular blade... slicing the Knight in two, and sending his torso sprawling forward. The Warrior screamed not with pain, but with shocked horror, as he saw his legs stumble forwards, then backwards, falling finally to rest next to his face. He did not stop screaming for some time after.

The remaining Knight took his chances, and brought his blade in low, separating the Lich’s lower rib cage from its torso. It seemed to do no good, as the Lich raised his hand to perform a similar task as before, but the Knight darted easily to the left, and brought his sword down once more, embedding his blade in the Lich’s skull.

With a sickening crunch, the blade became stuck, and still the Lich stood, its bones forming a lurid smile, as it brought a concealed Dagger into the lungs of the Knight, piercing steel and flesh with shocking ease. No number of layered steel could have stopped that blade. His heart stopped.

The Bard lay dazed at Crom’s side, who awoke to the sound of Nightmarish screaming. Shaking his head, he stood to see the blood bath, and his mind almost left his body. The young girl sat on the Alter, curled up and rocking with her legs brought up to her chin, screaming so hard her voice was almost silent, her hair stuck to her face, her open mouth drooling with terror.

With mind dazed, and limbs aching from constant battle, Crom stood, his Great sword embedded in the wall next to his head. With a weary arm he clasped the hilt, and pulled it slowly and stoically from the tough granite. Raising it above his head, he breathed in deeply, and brought it to Guard. Now he would strike with every ounce left in him.

The Bard 'came to' with a shock, and instantly began to cast a spell, rising up from the sludge ridden floor. Crom, standing atop the Alter, feet either side of the girl who sat terrified, bellowed with a rage that echoed out through the halls of the Lich Prince. He raised the great blade to his guard and lept from the Alter. Flying down the stairs with speed, and, legs flailing out behind him, he brought the blade out across himself, slicing the Lich’s spine, and sending fragmented bone through the blood hazed air.

With a howl of anger, the Lich’s torso fell forward, hanging limply from its hip bone. Crom landed heavily on the floor, and slid through the grime which made up the blood and ichor. He stopped abruptly with the aid of a cold stone wall.

The Lich snapped its spine back into place with a grunt, and stood over the young lass whom he wrenched from the Alter. With its one hand, it raised the Dagger high over its shoulder, and began to speak, the point of the Dagger aimed for the young girls heart.
“You are too late Mortal one, I have finished the Ritual, the girl dies now, and you cant stop me !” It screamed, its voice reminiscent of a madman.
"Now..."

Crom pulled his arms up, and slowly began to pull himself up to his knees. From beneath his long hair, bedraggled and soaked in blood his eyes burned with an un natural fire, and from the floor he dragged his Great sword up. It was still gleaming in the dull light.
"... I shall..." Screamed the Lich

Pulling up first one knee, then the other, despite his bones and muscles screaming out to him to stop, he stood tall. With one swift motion he started forward.
"... Feel the..."

The Dagger point began to fall as Crom flew through the air, his sword already swinging behind his head. The point of the Dagger was almost there, and Crom cursed himself for being so slow. But as the point came in close to pierce the girls soft flesh, just as it began to draw blood from her soft form, before she could even realise she was in pain, Crom’s sword came into view. So strong and true was the blow, that the Lich, a sword already embedded in its skull, didn’t even perceive the glint of steel before its skull was cleaved in two, and its unholy energies were dissipated in a violent blast that shook the very earth for miles around. Black Silence Covered the land.

* * * * * * * * *

From the smoke of the Citadel, as the people of the village watched in awe, their hearts as heavy as an anvil, came a tall figure, bold and soot black from the clag of smoke from burning corpses. In his mighty arms, strong and gentle was cradled a young lass no older than eighteen summers, her form too, smudged by the soot.

From his charcoaled face were two eyes, as bright and as strong as the summer sky, his lips curled in a image of strained exhaustion. He walked calmly to the people of the village, and, when he was no more than a few feet from them did he collapse. They huddled all around, and gathered bandages, a few of the Women stoying away the young lass to care for her. The crowds began to cheer.

Crom Groaned in pain, and he knew, he was not the man he was when he arrived here, three days ago.

Thanks for your time in reading this, I hope the corrections have made the specticle more pleasing. Please at least rate this story (Nicely !)

Ferris