Fate of the Mercenary Crom

Symbolism is a writers greatest tool…
It is the greatest gift a man can give to a reader…

--- --- --- --- --- --- ---
Then...
He raced against fear towards the small wooden cottage, his blade held in both hands, his rough leather jerkin stained in blood, slashed open in several places. Diving through the open door, his nostrils assaulted by the rancid smell of old blood, he turned into the bed room.

Three of the village men held him back, his screams of rage and anguish spilling forth with the tears of his eyes. His grip slipping on his blade, he turned to the old Witch who spoke words of reassurance to him.
“Crom! Listen to me please!” His fist relinquished its grip, and he ceased trying to break through, relaxing some what.
“… there is… nothing you can do… she’s gone Crom.”
The blade fell to the floor.

* * *

Now...
It was a brilliant sunny morning with a cool wind refreshing to all. The birds sang in their treetop homes as waves of heat shimmered off the dust packed road, small clouds flowing in the constant winds, forming small eddies about the feet of steeds and travellers.

It was on days like these that Crom could truly feel alive without the need of imminent danger breathing down his back, or the bitter sting of cuts in his flesh. Nay, it was days like these where he felt content. All he needed now was a woman on his lap, and silver in his hair. Of these, there was little or none.

Pulling the reigns to his steed, the heavy horse slowed to a gentle canter, allowing its rider to breathe in the fresh dry air and take in the rolling plains and fields of lustrous golden corn.

The blades of the farmer’s tools glinted in the bright sunlight, birds called in the sky and children, yet to be broken into the drudgery of peasant life, played about the roads and twisting pathways of fields and barns.

He envied them, yet pitied them. They would lead a steady and predictable life, have food on their table most days of the week, and live a life untroubled by the politics of kings and empires. Yet they would also never feel the thrill of the chase, or the awe-inspiring vistas of the unmapped lands and underground valleys. Nor would they ever meet creatures akin to their own minds, yet so physically different.

The road had begun to fill as the days went on. The season of the High Trade was nearing its start and there was much work for a man like Crom. A powerful sword arm was needed, and the more Steel a man wore, the better the prices he would fetch. Bandits were common this time of year, seeking infamy and fortune on those too poor or too proud to hire guards.

Guards were also needed by those not even leaving the city. The High Trade was also a time of great merriment and festivities, peoples from all over the known realms would gather and join in grand Balls and gatherings that could last days at a time.

Another days ride would take him to the Gates of Kirimar, the trade capital of the western kingdoms. Another night sleeping rough was more than acceptable when he weighed it against the profits and adventures he would reap in the next few months. He shrugged his shoulders a few times, two giant globes beneath a rough leather jerkin, and relaxed.


The very next morning he awoke early, pulling the heavy saddle bags from the pile of travelling gear dumped next to the small fire. Those camped on the roadside about him stirred in their half sleep, their children laughing and playing quietly. Suddenly their attention was drawn to the great bulk of Crom, as he towered over his sleeping steed and threw down the saddle bag. They gathered about him, behind the safety of the few small trees and each other.

From the bag he tipped a shimmering set of armour that fell to the earth with a dull thud. There, in the settling dust lay a chain hauberk, its colour that of a deep blue and emerald green that made the eye look twice, so close was its colouring.

From a hole in a separate bag he drew forth a leather crown, the sign of a mercenary and warrior, and from a long piece of sheep skin cloth he unsheathed a blade, the likes of which no other could glint.

Sorting his ‘tools of the trade’ on the earth neatly, he slowly rose to stand over them, placing his hands on his hips and admiring their worth and craftsmanship. Adamantine, so rare and so expensive, said to be able to shrug off magic and Devilry by a mere touch. Well worth the gold, he thought proudly.


Kirimar was in full swing as Crom rode slowly through the great Gates with the rest of the travellers and assorted merchants, a plume of dust gathering on the dusty road behind them. Ahead of him, deep within the walled City came the sounds of a procession and beneath the steel shod hooves of his steed lay crushed rose petals and bunches of cheap flowers. He gently rode on, an imposing figure amongst the Merchants and peddlers, his armour deep and heavy.
“Seems the Royalty are eager to hunt for their bargains this year.” He stated bluntly to a few of the travellers walking close by for his protection. They nodded and muttered nervously to each other.
“I heard that even the Princes from the Eastern Kingdoms have come all the way from the Sea of Sands, right through Tarmis, just to be here. Seems they are, as you say, starting early and risking much this year.”

Crom laughed at the small man. Not many would have the guts to actually talk back to him. He was happy to talk, but the customs of the kingdom meant that they were meant to work in silence when in the presence of richer folk. Customs, as Crom had pointed out many times in the past to those richer than he, were nothing more than rules to be broken. Especially by him.


Asserting ones position in the mercantile world of the Mercenary was a tricky and ever changing business. Each year, the yelps of tomorrow would need placing in their slots on the ladder. Crom, as a solo businessman found himself constantly under pressure from others to join them or fail in the gutter. Crom, as a solo businessman, liked to flex his muscles, both business and physical, from time to time. This year, it would be no different.

Far from the main road and markets, usually in the poorer district of the city, was nestled the mercenaries camp in all its rustic finery and aromatic offences. Sat at the rear of the main courtyard lay the registration tent, and scattered all about, some over gutters others connecting to Inns and Taverns, stood the tents of mercenary companies, their pennants flapping in the warm breeze.

Some small and new, others old and mighty in numbers, size meant nothing here, even the most prestigious companies were small in number. As a one man army, Crom was considered one of them… though his reputation spread little out of the mercenary world.

He rode down the centre of the main yard, meaning to ride directly into the main tent as he did every year to sign up for work. But, as usual, some brash youth or band of grizzled ‘hard-men’ tried to get in his way and refuse to move. There was simple and enjoyable way to get around this.

Quite suddenly he pulled on the reigns, forcing his steed to rear up on its hind legs and squeal with sudden distress. Oddly enough, the small band of ‘pretty boys’ dashed out of the way quickly, their nerves frayed, the older men turning their backs and muttering angrily to themselves. Once again, Crom would have to show them their place.

Slowly and purposely he drew the long, broad bladed sword from its scabbard at his waist and broke in a slow canter, growing into a full blown charge in a matter of feet. Unwilling to let their bravado pass, they turned and brandished their weapons. The courtyard soon emptied, as those who recognised the mercenary dived for cover.


“Greeting to you!” Boomed the barman as Crom strode into the dimly lit tavern, the familiar smell of pipe weed filling his nostrils, the murmur and laughter of the upper class mercenaries creating a welcoming din that helped relax the mind and body.
“Back from the dead again I see.” Laughed the barman as he filled a stein with the local brew, which, to note, had funded the city in its early days. He handed the frothy beer to the tall north man and smiled a crooked smile.

Crom downed the ale slowly and gently placed the stein back into the waiting hands of the small man, a ritual they had continued to perform ever since he had saved the mans daughter from gang-rape and murder.
“What has the street been saying about me now?” Asked Crom in his thick accent, taking the refilled stein and supping it slowly.
“Well…” Started the Barman, “… the usual things first, then how you took to the hills in pursuit of a infamous Bandit King before falling to the hands of a ‘beast yet to be named.’ Then I heard you had died at the hands of some new swordsman seeking fame and fortune, no doubt a ploy to make the new mercenary look even greater to his employers. To top it off, and you’ll love this one, I heard you had settled down in the east with a mother of two.” The barman chuckled and passed a bowl of steaming stew over the counter.
“How is my favourite girl these days?” Asked Crom, taking the bowl and gulping it down wolfishly. He belched quietly and passed it back, placing the unused spoon on the bar. Casually the north man scanned the patrons, a little disappointed.
“Lora C? Well, she left Kirimar at the end of the last season. Seems she found love in a man who was around more often.” The barman nodded his head solemnly and looked down at the bar.
“I’m sorry chief… I wish there was some other way of telling you this, but you weren’t there for her when she needed you… which was quite often.” A show of guilt on his face, he poured another stein and refilled Crom’s. Quietly, they both leaned on the bar, and drank the night away in silence, Crom patting the blade at his waste. Always it had brought him luck, though now it seemed to have left him also.

That night, resting in the small tent given to him by the Commander-in-Chief, Crom slept a restless night away. Far set into the back of his mind, where none could touch upon the frail memory, there lay a life almost forgotten.

As he wrestled with his thin blanket, he could hear the sounds of children playing, could smell the sweet grass on the summer breeze, and could feel the warm touch of a woman long ago taken. He became torn, as his dormant mind teased him with images from the past. Slowly he opened his eyes and sat up, swinging his legs from the portable bed and placing his face in both hands.

Pulling on his tunic and leggings, strapping the scabbard and sword to his heavy belt, Crom set off into the night, seeking company of the young and vibrant.


Facing the fact that he may never see the girl he saved, and loved, the next morning brought an upset and angry Crom to the Traders wharf. He brushed a chin full of stubble with a numb hand and wiped the salt from his lips. Hunched up and ready to hurl his open guts, he watched the fish swim by below. Knowing that they would never suffer such a horrid thing as a hangover, he envied them.

The glittering wash of the great River did nothing for the pounding in his head, and the soreness of his groin meant that the woman he had spent the night with was a little new to the whoring side of things, as was he. He leaned on the railings and spread his legs a little more to alleviate the pain. Casually he scratched at his tender spots and turned to gaze back into the city proper. Perhaps the prostitute hadn’t been a good idea, clean or not, she was still a young lass. Maybe he would take her out of that life and set her up some place nice with a part of this seasons pay.

Stumbling down the boulevard, one hand clutching his head, the other guided by the railings, came Logan, the oldest, grimmest and vibrantly red headed Merchant ever to have walked the earth, sands and seas for the best part of living memory.

With the usual grace and ceremony of a man drunk for the vast majority of his life, he threw up his guts into the lively river, drawing a few calls of disgust from the Upper Class wives nearby. He threw a palm of apology in their direction, before turning his head to again empty the contents of his stomach, some of it splashing on the smoothly cut stone boulevard. Satisfied, he wiped the spittle and vomit on his sleeve before approaching the ill looking Crom.
“Nice to see some of us are ready for a hard days work.” Muttered Crom, belting the old commander on the back and shaking his hand with the other.
“Easy there lad!” Gurgled Logan, his cheeks suddenly filling and his eyes turning inwards. He projected the foul tasting contents of his cheeks into the river and sighed heavily.
“Straight to work Crom. I’ve been approached by a young lass from the Noble district, something that made me smile greatly till I figured she was there for business and not pleasure. Seems the rich folk are holding a party in the name of the new Poet Laureate, some boy-bending waste of space from the south. They need a guard for him, and her, for the three nights of the party… and Crom, they pay well. All you need to do is stay sober, hard for me but not for you, and keep a sharp eye out for predatory bachelors and lonely women. Daddy is paying us extra if she returns with her virginity in tact, which she knows nothing about. So, two payments, one job. How do you like that?”

Logan paused, waiting for Crom’s reply eagerly. He flung a strand of red hair from his face and rubbed his sleeve on his black leggings, smearing the vomit a little further.
“Will you be there, at the party I mean?” Logan nodded quickly,
“For a night or two.” He added, rubbing the sleepy dust from his eyes.
“Alright then.” Crom nodded, “I’ll take it.”


The night was still young, the party was starting to swing, if that’s what it could be described as. People turned up, in all their livery and grandeur, bowing politely to the man who was said to be able to talk any woman into bed with him. As one taxi pulled away, another came clattering hoof on cobble almost straight away, the procession growing longer, the ball rooms filling and the wine slipping away.

Crom stood in a shadowy corner, his chain armour dulled by the low lights, one hand on the pommel of the sword strapped to his belt. He picked at a nail with his free hand, looking around casually for any signs of disturbance.

The Poet stood and chattered quietly to a few select guests, the richest from what Crom could make out, before teasing a young Noble by flirting with the lady who was wrapped about his arm. Crom noticed, on more than one occasion, that the Poet seemed to enjoy flirting with other peoples women. If it were not for the contract he had signed earlier that week, he would have cracked the slimy mans skull more than a few times this night.

The Poet, a man named Hans, was tall, slender and well built. To say that he was an awesome sight was an understatement. He practically oozed charisma, impressing the men and sending a hot flush through most women. It was only after a few seconds that most men resented him for his unique abilities, and most women were eyeing him lustfully. There was something in his eyes that reminded Crom of a predatory snake from the Southern jungles of afar.

He became distracted by the presence of some one close to him, also hiding in the gloomy corner of the reception. She laid a soft hand on his sword arm and drew closer to whisper gently.
“I just wanted to check everything was alright… I’m not really familiar with this sort of thing, parties I mean.”

It was the girl he was looking after, Jenna. Her long hair was a mousy brown, something most unusual in such rich families. Though not particularly tall, her frame was that of an hour glass, and Crom had fantasised, more than once, about getting to grips with her slender form.

Her hair tied up, face delicately hidden by the makeup forced onto such young and pretty girls by their ugly and jealous family members, she resembled only a half beauty that Crom could appreciate. She wore the makeup like a mask, one that Crom wanted to rub away and grab her by the hair. So coiled up by her proximity and gentle touch, that Crom had to walk away and breath. The armour was growing tight around his chest.

She peered up at him, her face close to examine his response in the shadow. If only she knew what it was doing to him. Perhaps she did, he thought. Looking away, a little embarrassed by the innocent touching of his arm, he croaked an answer that seemed to get stuck in his throat.
“Nothing to Report.”

Nothing to report!? He cursed himself, was that all he could say to the woman who had taken his breath away and left him, well… speechless. He seemed alarmed for a moment, as it settled on him that he did actually have a little feeling left inside.
“Very well then, Crom… that is your name, isn’t it?”
He nodded.
“A north man?”
He nodded again.
“Tell me, have you seen and battled monsters?” she asked excitedly.
He nodded.

Innocent and sheltered, he thought to himself. His relaxed demeanour was soon shattered though, as an old and sallow woman, also dressed in makeup, though maybe to hide the ugly visage of her face rather than enhance or protect it, called to the young girl on his arm.
“Come away from that roughness my dear, we don’t want you catching anything!” She practically pulled the young lass from Crom’s arm and they both disappeared into the crown of dancing snobbery.

Crom stood, mouth open in shock. Scowling at the old cow as she vanished. Bored, he made his way to table of food that was quickly disappearing and helped himself to a whole shank of pork. A small and fat man, bearing the uniform of the waiters tried to wrestle it from his grip, claiming it was only for the guests, but Crom just threw him aside and returned to his corner, tearing at the soft meat with his stark white teeth.


The night was growing old, the dancing and cavorting was slowing. In the corners of halls and behind the curtains to the great stain glass windows, couples and groups of three, groped and kissed one another, their lust fuelled by the wine and food. It seemed that marriage meant nothing to these people, as they gave themselves up to the hedonistic life of the rich and wicked.

Moans and groans of pleasure were soon filling the quiet air space between the walls and Crom. In a brothel or poor Tavern he would have expected there to have been some debauchery, wife swapping and wanton lust… in a richly decorated ballroom and mansion he expected a little more class and grace. He chuckled to himself, human beings were human beings after all.

To his right, a young girl on each arm, the Poet sat, his hands beneath the skirts of the two fine ladies, their heads thrown back and half smiles upon their pouting lips. Crom turned away. This, he thought, must be unusual in this sort of gathering. A haze was starting to fill the room, almost descending from the intricately carved ceiling.

As the small torches began to dim in the great halls and rooms of the mansion, Crom could feel himself relaxing. So relaxed was he, that his loincloth was growing tighter by the second. He shook the dreariness that seems to suddenly overtake him, standing from his position by the wall and taking a few sturdy steps to throw himself out of the daze.

Sure enough, he felt as if he had suddenly awoken from a deep sleep. A sense of fear creeping up his spine like a cube of fresh ice, he strode purposefully out of the ball room and into the reception hall, taking note that even the waiters and maids were fumbling around in one another’s clothing. Debauchery was a contagious thing.


“How goes the vigilance, Crom?” Boomed Logan’s voice as he boldly strode into the ballroom on the second night of the festivities. His usual drab attire was replaced with an ill fitting doublet of black and gold, his greying red mane flowing out behind his ruddy face.
“Go easy on these people Logan, they may not be used to your usual antics and tricks. Keep away from the girl, women have a habit of being with child by merely walking down the same street as you.”

There was a short pause before the wine addled mind of Logan truly understood that his northern friend was jesting, and soon he wheezed out a laugh that would have shamed a Burrick.

The night went on just as before, the wine seemed to flow from bottomless bottles, the food was always hot and well cooked, and the men folk soon left with a woman on each arm. Those that were too lusty found themselves performing the arts of lovers in corners and behind furniture.

The Poet, Hans, had caused a fluttering of women to fall by his side and attempt to win his favour, one young girl in particular almost throwing herself at him. Crom watched him work, starting with the least desirable woman and telling her that he would love to visit her in the lush lands of Tallstag. He ended up with but a handful of young woman, mainly young girls, each one eating out of the palm of his hand. The tall Mercenary was certain he had seen a venomous snake tongue dart from between his lips, but none had said anything. All he could do was frown.

It was at this point that Crom realised that the eyes the tall Hans possessed were not akin to that of a tropical snake, but rather of something Crom had seen a few years back in his days as a toughened Tomb raider.
The eyes he saw reminded him of a Devil.

Throughout the night, the young lass whom Crom was charged with, kept the other folk at bay, her hour glass figure swaying in the sea of drunken chaos that seemed to hold dominion over the remainder of the night. She seemed to want to scream out in desperation, falling over the men and women in a vain attempt to break herself into reality. Whatever her parents were doing, Crom knew that they cared little for her. On this night, he had seen her sob in her bed chambers quietly one too many times.
“Why do they do this to you?” He asked coldly, striding through the open door to her bedchamber and taking the young lass and her maid wholly by surprise. The two of them looked up startled, like rabbits, before the maid made her excuses and darted silently for the door. Crom stood before the four poster bed in his armour, hand on pommel and belt.

Gazing with weeping eyes at Crom’s stature, silently awed at the North mans imposing figure, she said nothing. Throwing herself into the Warriors arms suddenly, she wept freely, her chest quaking with struggled sobs.

Overcoming the overwhelming urge to take advantage, he placed her gently down on the silk swept bed and slowly turned to closed the door, drawing the bolt tight and ensuring it would hold a whole horde of aristocrats at bay for at least a few hours. Setting his broad sword against the nearest bed post, he sat half on the bed and smoothed out a fold in the girls hair.

Staring up into his fiery blue eyes, her chest heaving and flaunting more breast than Crom could handle, she began to speak, though her words were crooked and weak as she told her tale.
“They aren’t like other people.” She stated, gathering all her will to cease sobbing. Her victory short lived, she sniffed delicately, wiping a tear from her eye and regaining some of her composure.
“My family has a long history, dating back to the pre-Kirimar days.” Crom nodded, the Jagare family were famous for their ability to sniff out Devilry and Witchcraft. Some tales were true, others, most of them, were tall stories made by ancestors seeking the same fame and fortune as their forefathers.
“What of them… they are famed throughout the four kingdoms, they are rich, respected and held in awe by those of foreign Royalty. This is not a bad thing miss, why is this not to your liking?” A worm of suspicion wriggled in his gut.

Genuinely confused, Crom placed a heavy arm about her quivering shoulders and wiped a tear from her delicate lashes before giving her a playful hug. She smiled and managed a weak laugh, before placing her head on his lap and breathing slowly.
“There is so much I want to tell.” She answered. “Crom, don’t touch the food, especially the wine.” She added, before gently drifting off into a peaceful sleep.


Next day, Crom awoke early and let himself out of the ladies bed chamber. He scowled at the maids waiting politely outside and drew a few squeals of fright from the lowered heads. Knowing that most of the folk in the main halls and bed chambers would be sleeping off hangovers, Crom made his way to the ballroom, finding Logan exactly where he had left him.

The old sea dog was sitting in the centre of the grand room with the only chair, a woman at each knee and a goblet the size of a small child in either hand. Though the party had stopped hours ago, Logan had kept the spirit and mood going right through the night and into the morning. He stared at Crom from crossed eyes, and grunted an acknowledgment.
“Which way to the Kitchens?” He asked the old man, who pointed to a small set of doors set slightly below ground level, from which the smell of bacon wafted gently. He slapped the sea dog on the back and made his way quickly to the doors.

Throwing them open and making a fuss, he stood in the centre of the busy kitchen and kicked at a porter boy lightly.
“You…” He pointed. “… which way to the Cellar, be quick!” The small lad, grumbling to himself, slowly regained his feet and dusted himself down. He showed little fear to Crom, who seemed a little taken back the youths courage.
“Chef says we aint to go down there, now if you don’t mind, I have work to do.” The young lad turned on his heel and promptly began to walk away. A swift blow to the back of the knee brought him crashing down again. Hefting the young lad over his shoulder, Crom asked again where the Cellar was, and the youth obliged.


It had been his experience that any folk wishing to hide secrets usually went underground. In most cases, this was meant literally. If the Jagare mansion house was old enough, which he knew to be true, chances are it would have a large cellar complex.
“I don’t see what this has to do with anything.” Grumbled the flaxen haired lad as he held the torch for Crom and followed the mercenary down the twisting path of steps. They came to a fork in the passage and Crom sniffed the air.
“How long have you worked here boy?” He asked, snatching the torch and using it to glare down each tunnel.
“About a week, not that I’m bothered, this pissing jobs about as well paid as a pack mule… I’d rather have joined a mercenary company… at least I’d be dead and rich.” The young lads resentment to the catering industry brought a sly smile to Crom’s lip, who replied cruelly:
“Well then, welcome to the newest company in Kirimar.”

The lad shrugged a laugh, scratching his head and rubbing a sore knee. He pointed to the left corridor, and Crom shoved him forward.
“What’s the name of this pissing company then, and how much am I getting paid?” Asked the youth sceptically.

Crom managed a sly chuckle. He liked the young lad, he had a spirit in him that Crom had only ever seen in the folk of the northern kingdoms. He could do with a Squire, and the lad seemed to have a good sense of balance and direction.
“The names Crom, and you’re getting half the pay since there’s only two of us in this job.” The boy fell silent for a moment.
“And err, how much are we getting paid for this job, exactly?” He asked, stopping to face Crom and shaking free of the north mans grip.
“Two and a half each.” Came the curt reply.
“Two hundred and fifty big ones?!” Came the lads stifled cry. He dropped the torch in his sudden stroke of good fortune.
“No.” Answered Crom.
“Two thousand five hundred.”


“Shrines this far underground can mean only one thing.”
Crom stood hunched into a small alcove that had been unceremoniously smashed into the tunnel wall. His suspicions were coming closer to the truth. The young lad peered into the dim light excitedly, gripping the long knife Crom had handed him in both hands and shifting from foot to foot.

Crom peered around the corner slowly, pushing the boy back into the shadows with a swipe of his massive arm. He eyed the large chamber pensively, grimacing at the strange depictions etched into the old brick walls. The mould that had once clung to the walls had been cut away to reveal the old stone work, discarded in small piles on the damp ground.

Trickling water echoed off the round room, the smell of fetid and rank air filling his nostrils. A perfect place for clandestine meetings and strange rituals. Any Inquisitor would have a field day in a place like this.
“What’s your name boy?”
“Ralf.” Whispered the lad, rubbing his nose with a damp sleeve and coughing weakly.
“Anything strike you as a little odd these last few nights?”

Ralf thought for a moment, recalling the strange memories of the last two nights. He glanced at the room from under Crom’s arm and put two and two together.
“Seems some one has been having more than their fair share of wine, women and music. I’d bet your last gold piece that this is some perverted shrine.”

Crom eyed him suspiciously, taking a tentative step forwards out of the alcove and into the large circular chamber. He stood straight, rolling his shoulders to relive some of the cramp. Casually wiping some of the dust from the plain black marble alter he sat upon it, carefree of the dangers such an action could entail.
“You’d never get hold of my last gold piece.”

The lad coughed again, drawing a scowl from Crom who drew the broad blade from his waist and grabbed the torch back off Ralf. The young lad shrugged and switched the knife from palm to palm nervously.
“Say… shouldn’t we be getting back, every ones going to wonder where we’ve been. I doubt the lord of the manner would appreciate us rummaging around in his cellars. I could get the sack for this you know.”
“You’d get more than the sack if he found out you were down here. Now listen, these people aren’t the church going, fair folk of Kirimar. What you’ve seen today cannot be talked about, even in whispers, to any other than myself and Logan. Understood? Your life will certainly depend on you keeping your jaw tight.” He turned the boy around and began marching him back through the maze of tunnels and chambers.
“Now, we find some wine, pretend we have been discussing the finery of red over white and say nothing more until tomorrow morning.” He stopped the lad and spun him round to face Crom, scowling. Ralf nodded solemnly, nearly in tears.
“Have some faith in me lad, if you can get through this, you’ll make a fine addition to any Captains roster.”


That afternoon, Crom and Ralf made their excuses and left the waiters and maids to their work. The sunlight of the glittering Kirimar was overpowering to their cellar adapted eyes from only hours ago. Squinting, Ralf led the mercenary down the street and into a local Tavern where they dined on week-old salted pork and watered down, gritty ale.

For its proximity in the city, the Tavern was a little empty for the time of season and day. Even the Bar man was finding it hard to do any work. Crom eyed the maid cleaning tables and slapped her on the buttocks as she glided past. Ralf chuckled to himself and dribbled some ale.
“Remember what I said boy, a word to no one. I have a few things to sort today, just in case we have any problems tonight. Tell me, do you have any family in Kirimar?”

Ralf shook his head, stuffing more pork and bread into his overfilled mouth, causing a spray of crumbs to spatter about the table. He paused, then carried on eating, as if the very thought of food kept him from functioning.
“I had a lady friend, but she, err, left me last night.”

Crom raised an eye brow from behind his stein. He smiled and slapped the lad on the shoulder, almost chocking the small Ralf.
“What was here name? Does she live here in the city?” Asked the north man in his thick accent.
“She’s a local girl, brought up right proper she is. I haven’t really spoken to her about it, the break up I mean. She… err, was at the party the other night.” Ralf looked glumly into the half stein in his fingers and threw it back. It slid down his throat quickly, and he called for some more. Crom eyed him thoughtfully before speaking.
“The Poet got to her?”
Ralf nodded gravely, and Crom laid a hand on his shoulder gently.
“Listen lad, the Poet has an unfair advantage in this. He’s rich, famous and more than likely a worshiper of some deranged God. You on the other hand have not a lot of money, you certainly aren’t famous, and as far as I know, you don’t have that ‘bad boy’ image that girls your age like to go for.” He smiled and nodded slowly at his own words.
“I can give you these things if you like. But I’m no religious man… and neither should you be. Its just not right in our line of work. Understood?”
Ralf nodded and smiled a little.
“Now. Tonight, I look out for Miss Jagare, and you look out for your lady friend. As soon as he sets eyes on either of them, we shall persuade him out the back to lighten his fingers or lose his manhood. Sound like a plan?”
Ralf nodded, the malign intent etched clearly into his cherub face.

Crom messed the lads golden locks with one giant hand before throwing a handful of coins at the tavern keeper. Casually, they left the large building and went their separate ways.


On the third night, all the stoppers were pulled free, and the debauchery spilled out into the whole mansion. The women squealed, the men laughed, wine and food was consumed and poured down naked bodies. Even the maids and waiters were unable to keep up with the orgy of writhing flesh and cacophony of moaning and groaning.

All the time Crom stood in his corner, watching the Poet with keen eyes, waiting and urging the foppish man to slip up, to fall and break, so that he may stamp his remains into dust. The night outside was cold and unforgiving, the winds howling about the windows, practically shaking them free. It seemed as if nature itself wanted to get in and sweep the place clean.

Crom spotted the young Lady Jagare gliding gracefully through the throng of dancing and drinking, her delicate features smeared by the bustle and jeering. The soft, light blue gown she wore that night only accentuated her already lustful curves, her tight bodice leaving very little to the imagination. Crom could not help but eye her bosom. He drew in a breath sharply and pulled himself from the his perch on the wall.
“My Lady, the air in this hall is getting too close, mayhap we could walk the other halls and catch our breaths.” Offered Crom as politely as he could, mentally resisting the urge to glare at her pristine form.

She smiled thankfully, nodding a ‘yes’ and taking his arm. Gracefully, the pair began to leave the almost riotous hall, their steps hastening with every moment. They had reached the reception hall, where stood Ralf in his red and white doublet, a butchers knife clutched in his hand like a hawks talon over a mouse.

The two paused as they witnessed the almost blank stare of the young lad, who’s knuckles had bleached to white, shoulders visible shaking. The flaxen haired youth brought the cruel implement up to his shoulder and pointed, intent to throw it, his face screwing up in anguish, to the Poet Laureate, complete with young woman.

Crom needed not to guess at what the three of them looked upon. The young woman was clearly the girl that Ralf had spoken of in the tavern. True to Crom’s deal, the lad was ready to deal out justice on the Poets manhood.
“No!” Cried Crom, dashing forwards and taking the newly thrown knife into the left shoulder.

He twisted with the blow, catching the boy with a right hook and sending him sprawling to the ground. Ralf slid across the floor, stopping only with the aid of the marble lined wall.

The young Lady Jagare ran to the boy and checked him over quickly while Crom grasped the knife in his huge hand and glanced at the armour surrounding his shoulder.
“He’s alright… my guess is he’s taken the night off with a bottle of the wine.” She stated over her shoulder at Crom.

The tall North man stuffed the large butchers knife into his belt and wiped the blood from his knuckles. He looked back into the main hall, ensuring that none had seen the brief incident. To their luck, the hundreds of guests were too busy exploring each other bodies on the soft cushions and pillows.

The very sight disturbed Crom, it made him sick to see such wanton lust and base human greed. He had never seen such acts of impurity, though he himself was no pure man. To pay for a single nights pleasure with a woman was a thing done by most lonely sailors and mercenaries. To attend a gathering such as this was against all that was right in the world.

In the last three nights, he had seen two or more married women go hand in hand with a single man, he had seen young girls ravaged by groups of men, and he had seen crowds of people torture and caress each other all at the same time. On more than one occasion he had witnessed near death, so great was the pleasure these people derived from sickly games of cat and mouse. A cord in Crom was tugged greatly.
“Come quickly.” Came the young Jagare lass’s words, as she helped the stunned Ralf to his feet, her steps leading them both to the private halls.

As they darted up the tall flights of stairs, Crom could hear the old crone who was the Lady of the house scream to the Guards outside to seize them. The thing he had hoped for since the last week was finally coming true. An adventure had found him in the city of Kirimar. A tale was to be added to his great Saga. The Guards began to follow.

Crom smiled as he fled up the stairs, one hand drawing the adamantine broad blade at his waist.


The three of them threw the grand bookcase over the door, the calling of the house Guards growing louder as they rushed up the stairs to find the trio. Ralf stood, pale in the twilight of the moon washed room, his hair matted with his own blood, his lips split and swollen.
“My names Jenna boy, I know the girl whom you had you heart set upon. Crom has told me what has happened and I can tell you that she is not the only one under his spell.” She wrapped him in her arms and reassured him. Crom braced himself against the book case as the men outside tried to force their way through.
“Is there any way out of here?!” He stammered through gritted teeth at Jenna, his shoulders and limbs straining with the effort. He shook violently under the pressure, muscles beginning to show, even from under his heavy armour.
“Of course there is Crom, I would not have drawn you in here otherwise.” She stated haughtily.
“Good…” He strained “… lets get out of here!”
“Listen to me Ralf, I need you to go over to that desk and push it to one side.” She gestured to the desk not three metres to the right.
“There you will find a small latch, pull it and go through the door it opens, wait there for Crom.” She wiped the tears from Ralf’s cherub face and patted him gently on the nose.
“Now boy, do as you are told and I hope to see in the light of all that is pure in this city.” She kissed him motherly on the face and gently pushed him to the desk where he performed his duty. In the stress of the last three nights, and the affect of the strangely distilled wine, Ralf had slipped into a trance like state, only now would he respond to a calm womanly approach.
“Would you get a move on!” Roared Crom with a reddened face, the shouts of the Guards rising outside as they managed to shift the door open and inch. He spat with the strain, spittle forming over his lips.
“Crom, go quickly, follow the boy… I will hold them back a little.”

Her tone and stance told Crom not to argue, and so he let go of the bookcase, dashing hell for leather through the secret door and cursing the woman who had saved them from a lynching.
“Seek the temple beneath the cellars, there you will find the source… now hurry, go!” She cried desperately.

He eyed her from the secret doorway, knowing full well that though they had never shared one another’s thoughts, there was something between them that would undoubtedly have caused Crom to crush Empires beneath his heel for her. She turned away just as the bookshelf began tipping backwards.

Crom had slammed the door shut in time with the toppling of the bookcase, the hammering of heavy boots suddenly filling the room behind him. Clasping a reassuring hand on Ralf’s shoulder, he lead the boy down into the darkness.


Only once before had Crom been caught in an unknown tunnel system, admittedly the circumstances would perhaps have been a little more dangerous, but the creeping death that he had felt once too often seemed just round the next corner.

In the pitch black he stumbled, pulling the young Ralf in his wake, the sounds of a violent massacre filling their ears as they passed each room in the wall space. It seemed that what ever nefarious plan the Jagare family held, the slaughter of the party folk was a major part of it. Even the house Guards were in on this. Crom only hoped that Logan had managed to get out, or at least take some of the vile bastards with him. Now, though, they had to get onto the roof.
“Listen to me boy… tell me where the entrance to the loft space is in this house… come on lad!” He shook Ralf violently, coaxing a moan from the trance like state of the youth.
“On the main landing space, there is a ladder that drops down when you pull the tassel cord.” Managed Ralf.


A rowdy group of guards flew past the secluded door in a rabble, intent of carving their way through a young aristocrat and his wife. Disappearing around a corner, the sounds of battle fell into the chaotic din of the mansion and its ghastly killing spree. Crom crept forwards, sword held before him in both hands.
“Come on boy, quietly now… they could come running back round that corner just as quickly.

In a daze, Ralf came forth from the shadows, eyes squinted as they adjusted to the light once more. Slowly he crept out into the landing and reached for the tassel hidden behind a large chest of draws. He gripped the tassel, then stopped.

Standing before Crom, her hand clutching at a slender dagger wreathed in a light blue nimbus, stood the old crone whom Crom took to be the mother of Jenna. Lady Jagare. To either side of her, crossbows cocked and aimed knelt two house guards, their faces hidden beneath a steel masks. Each wore toughened leather, no doubt these were mercenaries from the southern kingdoms. Enemies. No wonder they were in on the carnage.
“I always wanted to hire a north man for their lack of self worth and will power. It seems that despite drinking our wine and eating our food, you have some sort of resistance to the effects of the Lure. I only hope that this is an isolated incident, from which no others will be spawned akin to you.”

She turned away and raised a palm, a salute to Crom and the order to open fire. Her hand wavered though, as Crom spoke out.
“Your daughter…” He smiled and chuckled “…is with child… or at least I hope that three nights of wanton pleasure with her curves have sown the seed.” He relaxed, and lowered his guard, useless to the two men aiming for his heart. The old crone stopped and turned back.
“You wouldn’t have dared, the Mercenary known as Crom is true to his word, to the words bound by money and writing. You are bluffing!” Spat she, raising the glowing dagger and calling for more guards.
“Master Crom?” Whispered Ralf. “The Cord is broken… it wont work.” He continued sharply.

Insistent on maintaining his gaze at the old hag, Crom raised his sword in both hands again, his bulging chest heaving, muscles flexing. With a gaze from his eyes of cold blue fire, he ordered Ralf to find another way, before striding boldly forward, raising the broad blade in a great arc above his head.


Crom roared up the stairs, clutching at the wound in his shoulder. Freshly made, it seemed to bleed relentlessly, the nimbus of magic that had surrounded the crones blade quickly fading around the wound it had so keenly cut.

Reaching the top of the stairs, he turned and lashed out with the broad blade, catching the guard hot on his heels across the throat.

The man paused, his face hidden beneath the mask of steel, both hands grasping at the blood pumping wound, showering them both in the warm crimson life fluid. Crom raised his hard leather boot and kicked the man unceremoniously down the stairs, knocking the others lower down head over heel.

He glanced at his wound once again, lowering the blade in one hand and grimacing with the pain that seemed to flow from the wound. He bit back the fiery sting, and looked over his shoulder at Ralf who pushed at a door way desperately.

More shouting came from below, and Crom turned back to face the three men advancing up the stairs to the loft, their blades held ready, their eyes glaring at him from beneath their helms. At the bottom of the stairs lay the mangled corpse of Lady Jagare, her blood pooling about her black ball-gown, seeping into the gold and red carpet.
“Get a move on Ralf, we don’t time!” Roared Crom, deftly parrying the first blow and forcing his assailant down.


The door burst open as Crom came rolling through it, landing on the ground in a storm of splinters, his momentum diminishing. He stopped in a crouch, clutching his blade closely and rising. Two of the guards bellowed after him, their blades poised ready to strike him down, but the north man simply bull rushed his way through them, sending one down into the cold night below.

The narrow rooftop was furnished with only a foot high railing and the moon shadowed them in all its glory, Crom suddenly feeling open and vulnerable. The air seemed cold, crisp and strangely calm, very unlike the storm that had brewed only an hour or so before.

Ralf clambered up one side of a slanted turret roof, his feet slipping on the damp tiles, his fingers bleeding as he clawed his way up relentlessly. So eager was he to get away from the carnage that he did not feel the pain.

The last guard leapt forwards, a valiant act were it not for the rashness. Crom’s blade caught the man square in the chest, the diamond hard steel piercing the toughened leather armour and skin like a spear through water. Blood dribbled down the hilt and burst from the mans back.

Twisting the blade, Crom pulled free the corpse and sent it hastily down into the cold night below, to join its comrade in rest. He raced to meet Ralf who stood holding the steel lightening conductor, the wind growing again in its fury. He handed the lad his blade, and cupped both hands to his mouth.
“Ruathar!?” He called in a long, drawn out bellow. There was a pause before another call was made in response, followed by another and then another until the chain was completed, circling, Ralf noticed, the entire noble district of the city.
“Sinn Siubhail!” Came the shout in a cacophony of voices that reached up from the streets below to the two man army.
“What did they say?” Inquired Ralf, still shaking the daze from his mind, the cool night air instilling a sudden sense of urgency within his stomach. He looked down into the night, noting with amazement, the kilt wearing Caledonian mercenaries, hurtling through the streets towards the mansion.
“The emergency plan.”

Crom grinned and grabbed the boy by the collar, forcing him back down the turret side. He handed Ralf his spare dagger and proceeded back through the loft and down the stairs.
“Get your girl, see that you both get away to safety. I’m going after that Poet… Jenna needs me, I’m not about to let her down. If you can, find Logan and ensure he gets out too.” Crom paused before adding:
“You might have to drag him out, when there’s a fight, he always wants to crack some skulls.” He slapped Ralf on the back and shook his hand.
“If I don’t come out of this, everything I own is yours… the lot.”

Turning the lad to face the stairs down into the chaos that they had tried so hard to escape, he kicked him playfully, turning the opposite way to run down the corridor where he had last seen the young Lady Jagare.


The chaos that surrounded the young girl was akin to the nightmares of the collective human folk in the city of Kirimar. Blood pooled in corners around bodies which had been hacked to bloody lumps of meat. Body parts, cleft from their owners lay scattered, forming a sea of twitching limbs and fingers. All about, the people screamed and ran like a horde of gibbering lemmings, their erratic actions causing more mayhem by the second.

Ralf pushed his way through, his eyes never leaving the girl whom he had grown to love and hate in the space of a few days. He understood, now that the affects of the wine and atmosphere had gone, that she had not been acting on her own volition. There had been strange things going on, she had to be saved, she was innocent, barely older than himself.


Crom stalked through the tunnel system as best he could, the pain still draining his energy, the wound festering on his shoulder, spreading. He clutched at it with his spare hand, biting the pain away with his lip. He had to focus, he had to concentrate or all would be lost. What ever the dagger did to him, its affects were only truly becoming apparent now. He paused and leaned on the rough wall, catching his breath.

His brief rest over, he continued to stalk forwards, drawing his blade free and holding it before him. With each step he could feel the weakness taking control of his limbs, like an inexorable march of insects crawling over his skin, prickling his body to numbness.

He stumbled a little more through the dark, avoiding the bodies that seemed to have found their way this far down. He knew by the wounds they had suffered, that it was no blood frenzied guard which had slaughtered them. No, they had been killed too cleanly for that. A sliced throat was the act of a calculated killer with a malign intent towards sacrifice. Crom shuddered.

Ahead, he could hear struggling followed by a brief shout of anguish and terror. It ended in a heavy groan. The sound of a man dying. To his sorrow, Crom recognised the voice as that of Logan. So, he thought, the old sea dog had found them out too.

Nearing the great underground chamber, Crom slipped the arm of his wounded shoulder into his belt, keeping the appendage from becoming severed as it dangled by his side. He bit back the pain once more, before sliding through the shadow and into the great chamber.

Engrossed in their bizarre ritual, none of the six guards noticed his entrance, even the Poet, who was flanked by the Lord of the house, and, to Crom’s dismay, the Lady of the manor, did not flinch as he glided in. He knew the wounds that the old hag had suffered were enough to kill her… but he accepted that nothing had been what it seemed.

Tied by all limbs to the black marble alter that Crom had sat upon only a few hours before, lay the confused and innocent Jenna, her long gown torn away, leaving only her bodice and undergarments which had been stained with suspect substances. A thin film of sweat had broken out onto her soft delicate skin, her face and chest flushed red, the thick incense clogging her lungs and causing her to pant groggily.

She threw her head left to right, her eyes unfocused and glazed as she desperately tried to pull herself free, the thick ropes tearing at her light ankles and wrists. She writhed seductively, forcing Crom to stop and stare at her perfect, supple figure. So engrossed was he that he did not notice the prone form of Logan twitch with life, his rusty sword barely inches from his cold hands.
“Vill du sticka detta Sjal, Carimar?” Screeched the old hag, throwing her arms in the air, her left hand still missing from Crom’s blow, her head bent to one side where he had nearly cleft it from her scrawny neck.

The gathering all turned to the altar, the Poet lifting his arms to the sky, a single blade of flame grasped between tawny fingers, his head thrown back in chant. Three of the guards began to beat a drum each, first slowly, then gathering pace as the ritual came closer to its end.
“Geintleach Dia!” Whispered Crom in his mother tongue to himself. These people worshipped a Heathen God, long thought dead to the known world and their sages.

Like a wraith in the night, Crom crept to the dais where stood the gathering. He gently placed one hand over the guards mouth, pulling his target back and driving the point of his blade through the spine of a guard, drawing a muffled, child like scream from the man.
The ritual ceased.

Blood spattered down over Janna’s form and jetted over to the three that held the ritual in check. The lord, lady and poet all turned to face Crom, who grimaced.

The beating of drums did not stop, and the brief struggle that ensured was violent and to the point, as Crom hacked mercilessly as the remainder of the guards. They stood little chance against the north mans fury, who brought the great broad blade about himself in huge arcs of whistling death.

The men dead at his feet, their limbs twitching spasmodically, Crom eyed the three invokers, his grimace turning to a grin. Snarling something in his mother tongue, eyes wide with battle lust, he flipped his sword into the air, caught it again in his good hand and hurled the heavy blade squarely at the old hag.

The trio scattered in opposite directions, like a startled warren of rabbits, throwing themselves to the floor. The beating of drums fell silent, the remaining two regaining their feet quickly.

The old hag was not so lucky. The mottled blade of green and blue, had caught the side of her head, tearing open her skull from the eye socket and fastening itself in the wall behind. She hung there with the blade a short moment, all eyes turning to see what would become of the witch.

Slowly, gravity pulled at her body, forcing the adamantine blade to slip through the remainder of her head, which fell in two halves either side of her prone body. There was a cheer from a familiar voice, again the three left turned, this time to see Logan propping himself up against the rough hewn wall. He smiled and laughed at the lord and poet.
“You don’t abuse your body for decades with wine and beer and come out of it with nothing to show! Been drugging myself up for a moment like this for years!” He wheezed, chocking on a sliver of blood. With his last strength, he tossed Crom his rusty sword, before falling to the cold and damp earth once again.

Crom raised the blade to his face before sweeping a low arc bout his legs, glaring at the remaining two with such malign intent that any normal man would have fled for the hills as if the Devil himself were at his heel. They stared back coolly, subconsciously taking a step closer to one another. Lord Jagare unsheathed a duelling blade, the old man flexing muscles he had not needed to use in the last twenty years.
“Well north man, what do you intend to do now? The slightest move and we kill the girl, simple as that. It is going to be interesting to see how you react.” He spat, performing a few testing manoeuvres. Crom stood stock still, unimpressed by either of them.
“Well, Crom? What is it you’re going to do?”

Crom pursed his lips and shrugged his good shoulder. Cocking his head to one side, he exhaled quickly and pondered for a moment. Hans the poet sighed in disbelief, shaking his head.
“Nay my good lord Jagare, this is no hero, he is a simple mercenary, in this job for one thing. It is sheer luck that he made it this far. Come now, let us finish this before we are interrupted a third time.” Hans raised the dagger above his head and brought it down swiftly.

Recoiling in horror, Hans was thrown back by the force of the blow which pierced his right shoulder, sending a jet of warm blood across the room for a good five foot. A large bolt had found its way to an artery, tearing the flesh about the wound and twisting the tendons back in his arm, causing the hand to seize and the elbow to suddenly retract.

He howled in pain, stumbling from the dais and into the dirt at the very back of the great chamber. Seizing the opportunity, Crom raced forwards, cleaving a bloody stroke that cleft lord Jagare’s arm from his shoulder. The old man crumpled to the earth, and Crom took the opportunity to stamp on the mans head, till blood pooled from the mans nose, mouth and eyes. His sudden work of horrific disfigurement finished, he then turned his attention to the poet. A brief inspection told him all he needed to know. To his disgust, the poet was dead, though Crom, a survivor of several previous encounters such as this one, knew there to be more.
“Crom, we have no time… things are happening upstairs that you wouldn’t believe!”

Ralf stood in the entrance to the great chamber, a huge arbalester propped by his foot, a winch and bolt in each hand. Crom figured the lad to have good aim, if his wounding of the Poet was anything to go by.
“Try me boy, I’ve seen a lot these last few years.”
“Nay milord, trust me. Strange creatures seem to be coming out of the walls, your friends, the Caledonians, are having to fight for their lives now.” Urged Ralf, reloading the crossbow and covering the rest of the room with his arc of fire.

Crom inspected the remains of the old woman and shrugged, pulling the adamantine blade from the wall and wiping the brackish blood from the blade.
“Leave the room boy, take Jenna with you and if you can, see that Logan walks again. This battle isn’t finished yet… this Poet was no mere human being.” He glanced down at the rapidly decomposing corpse that was the poet and grimaced. “There is about to be one hell of a fight, and… I suggest you leave unless you feel like battling the very denizens of hell.”

Hastily they untied the dazed Jenna and pulled Logan to his feet. The old sea dog clutched at his wound in his stomach, hobbling off down the tunnels system to lead them to safety. Ralf pulled his tunic about Janna’s shivering body, more to restock her dignity than to protect her from the cold.
“Remember what I told you boy, its all yours if I fail to get out of this one alive… now go, and look back only if there is a faint glimmer of hope!” He shoved the three of them through the entrance and glancing at his shoulder, tested the wounded arm.

To his praise, the joints ached, yet moved freely with some of the numbness gone, leaving him with a nausea that had welled up in his stomach. He knew that it had nothing to do with the fact that he had been wounded, it was simply because he was in the presence of something from the very depths of hell. He shuddered visibly. Only a few times before had he seen such creatures, and he knew, without doubt, that this was purely the most powerful he was going to face.

As the corpse of the poet Hans melted away in a cloud of steam, he noticed that the bones remained, though the legs seemed fused together, as if the creature was some sort of half snaked beast from another time. Before him, there came a flicker of light in the sockets of the creature, and, almost immediately a new layer of flesh began to form.

From the bones came the trickling of veins and the pull of tendons, causing the hellish creature to twist and writhe, as if in its death throws. Crom had learned from the past that to attack such a creature now would be futile, since it would keep forming until fully spawned. He watched on in a sickened awe.

Next, the muscles sprouted from pores in the bones, lashing themselves around the thickening joints and filling with life. Spikes burst from the muscles down its spine and talons stretched out from elongated fingers. A barb, thick with venom, sprouted from the end of its elongated tail, and drawing closer to the end of the horror, two eyes formed like two globs of melting wax. Crom placed Logan’s blade through his belt, and stood ready.

They stared at him casually, those vibrant, cold eyes, the beating of a heart forcing its blackened blood to run, causing the eyes to wobble in their sockets as tendons and muscles took a hold of them, forcing them to focus.

Nearing the end of the transformation, a vipers tongue lashing from a many fanged mouth that seemed akin to a shark of the deep, the beast howled a hellish howl, that shook the foundations of the manor house. To Crom’s utter dismay, it began to grow in size.

A huge wave of energy burst from the final wrapping of tough, scaly hide, sending Crom back across the room and upsetting the dust and blood on the floor. A thin haze of red burst into the air and at last the creature was complete.

Standing a clear head above Crom, it slivered across the earth, grasping a spear from the corpse of a mutilated guard. It swayed before the mercenary as he regained his footing, tasting the air with its forked tongue. Blood, almost as thick as water, hung in the air, glowing and pulsating with the wild energies involved.
“You should have left while you had the chance…” It hissed, tasting the smell of Crom’s perspiration.
“No mortal has ever defeated me in three thousand years, what makes you think you are any different?” It spat, drawing itself up to its full height, muscles doubling in size, its teeth and talons longer and deadlier.

Crom held his blade before him with both huge hands, spreading his legs a little further apart to stabilise himself. He breathed in deeply, his chest rising and falling rhythmically.
“I am Crom.” He shouted boldly, noting a sense of unease filling the creatures black heart.
“I have faced two of your kind in my life, neither of them have been able to find a way back to this world. I posses the mind and body of a man, yet my heart and soul cannot belong to those that would take it. In this, you must see, that by defeating me, you will gain nothing, for you cannot devour or use my soul to any purpose.”

The creature seemed to take in his words, though it still grew at an alarming rate. Finally, after a long pause, it spoke back.
“I am not the piffling demon kin that you have thwarted before, my foolish enemy. I am from the very depths of hell. I do not feed off its energy, I command it. Do you still think yourself so easily won now? Am I not mightier than any creature to have ever walked the earth?” Its hiss was growing louder and deeper the larger it grew.
“It is true, I have no doubt, that you are from the very depths of hell, but trust me foolish devil kin, when I say: Hell, I’ve been there… do your worse.”

Already Crom could feel the great beasts mind forcing its way into his head. Any sane man would have fought it back, but, having felt such terrible forces before, Crom knew that to do so would only invite its terrible wrath upon him. He relaxed, letting the Demon probe his thoughts and memories.

He could sense that it was playing back the memories of the battle with Greganach, a battle which had raged for three weeks in the deep deserts of the east. It went as far back as the battle with the mighty Belgorath, and the invasion of the walled city of Ulest. It scanned his memories of the Trolls and Tarmis, and of how he had succeeded in toppling kings and emperors. When it finally left, Crom could not help but feel that the Demon was not impressed.

A deep, resounding laugh came forth from the Demons twisted sneer, as it dropped the Spear to the ground, its bulk starting to fill the entire chamber as it rose up once more.
“Little man from the north… you are nothing. You are weak, poor and utterly alone in this world… there is no love that you can find that will match your dear lost wife. Drop your guard, and give in to the oblivion that awaits you.” It moved a colossal claw, gripping the very tip of Crom’s adamantine blade between two talons.

Crom lowered his head, shaking in sorrow. He had managed to keep that secret deep in the back of his mind for decades now, so much so, that he had nearly forgotten it was there. So long ago had it all happened, so much pain had it caused, that he felt a terrible loss in his heart once more. Slowly, to the Demons glee, he relinquished the blade to the mighty demon before him, dropping to his knees.
“It is time, Crom of the north, to relinquish your hold on life… your time on this earth is drawing to an end…. strangely, I see nothing in your future. This, I am afraid, leads me to believe that there is only oblivion for you… you are, after all, no god Crom.” The beast raised itself up once more.
“The hour of Hell is upon us… the perverse nature of your Nobles only testifies this. Give it up, Crom, feel the endless stretches of oblivion tearing at the fabric of your being. Let the endless passage of time ease the suffering you have felt for so, very, long.”

His head still lowered, the north man shook. How was it that he felt so alone, how was it that he had come this far, and now, through all the trials and tribulations he had endeavoured to strive through, he felt so weak now?
“In over thirty years, I have not aged, nor have I grown feeble while my closest friends have aged and fallen, ill or cleaved, in the wayside.” He breathed in deeply. “I have seen your home, Demon, I have witnessed the horrors that you can set upon a man… I have even felt the cruel touch myself, far from the abyss.”

“The Gods have not spared me, they have abandoned me, I have the power only to encourage a mob, to incite rage and courage in men on the field. You are right Demon, I am nothing… but the people of this world are not ready for your tyranny. To this, you must understand, I will…”

Crom regained his footing, grimacing with the strain it caused his wounded shoulder. He could feel the blood pumping vibrantly through his veins again.
“… not surrender to your truly pitiful attempts to break what little soul I have left within me. Know this, ‘Demon of the Abyss’, you are the one who is weak, you are the one who is feeble… your grasp on this world starts only when there is no other to take my place. We will fight each other to the death, but not yet my foolish Demon, no yet.”

The Demon looked back at Crom, its eyes wide with amazement. So many times it had foiled a mortals plans to destroy it, so many times it had succeeded, never to have failed in fact. Here, now, there stood a man, who’s flesh was mortal, yet who’s mind was so strongly willed that it almost caused pain to talk to.
“This, is a striking story, Crom of the North, but now the hordes want to know how the story ends. Only a creature of my might can end this tale. What could be more awe and fear inspiring to a Demon and mortal alike, than to say that I, Carimar, have slain Crom the invincible, the man who knows no fear?”

Crom scooped up the Demons discarded spear casually. The Demon, knowing itself immune to such pathetic weapons smiled and glanced at the newly acquired blade from Crom closely. Strangely, it felt an unease as it inspected the dark greenish blue tint that ran down both its cutting edges.
“Demon of the Hells, creature from the Abyss… fool of all the worlds from this one to the furthest. I, Crom of the north, chosen of the Gods to which I owe no allegiance, in this most eventful day…” He couldn’t help but smile as the blood in his limbs suddenly pumped through his body even faster, a beat in his heart that seemed akin to the beating of the drums, the giddy feel of victory resting easily in his stomach.
“…do smite you down, knowing, that the largest and most terrifying Demon to have ever walked said earth, was humbled by the spear of a mere guard!”


He thrust the blade through the Demons tough hide, the simple steel tipped edge of the glinting metal slicing so easily through the infernal flesh.

The Demon roared.

Glancing down at the thick black blood which gushed from the minor seeming wound, a stroke of horror passing over its gruesome face, it clutched at the wound, ripping the spear tip free.

Regarding the spear tip hastily, it looked back to the blade held in the other hand, its heavy breathing echoing out of the underground chamber. Slowly, realisation dawned on its demonic visage, a look of utter defeat that quickly turned to a flying rage.
“What have you done to me!?” Its voice boomed, dazing Crom who shook his head groggily.
“In your attempts to talk me into death, you overlooked the simplicity of one thing. Had you kept your mouth shut, had you not told me I was not a god, the thought would never have crossed my mind. But in telling me so, I did remember that the blade which you plucked so easily from my hands, is made from some of the purest adamantine, said to ward away devilry. I am no god, but with the blade in your hands, nor are you a Demon. Devilry you were, your undoing. Demon from the Hells, return to your home and lick thy wounds!”

Drawing Logan’s rusted blade from his belt and grasping it in both hands, he smote the Demon across the face, drawing a scream of pain and anguish which rattled the foundations of the mansion. Twice, thrice, Crom stabbed, cut and hacked at the Demon, taking advantage of the shock that the Demon was quickly growing to understand.

Feebly, it parried his blows, its furry mounting as it found its limbs heavy with the laws of nature binding its power to the hell it had sprouted from. In the epic struggle of man and demon, it had over looked the most simple of threats.


From outside the mansion, Ralf, Logan and the others, barely a handful of survivors, watched and listened to the booming voice that seemed to emanate from all around.

Quite suddenly, there came a terrible screaming, such as never had been heard before, and which could not be described by any.
Finally, the terrible wailing ceased.

A deep silence covered the city, as clouds began to gather, obscuring the gleaming sun light that Kirimar was famous for. Ralf looked to Logan inquiringly, who shrugged his old shoulders, scratching at his great red beard.

From the mansion there came a sudden quake, that shook the earth, toppling a near by church steeple and sending present those to the ground. Shaking their heads and regaining their feet again, masonry crashing about their ears, the crowd watched on as the mansion house and all its grounds began to rumble and shake. A throbbing at first, tossing roof slates to the earth, but growing, like a thundering charge of Knights.

A glowing nimbus of wild energy burst forth from the windows, sending a shockwave of heat outwards, again knocking people to their backs and blowing over carts. Flames began to lick at clothing, and screams filled the heated air.

A silence followed, the people gathered taking the respite to once more get to their feet, some running fear, others mesmerised by the events unfolding. The silence that followed lasted but a mere second, as an explosion, quite unseen in this part of the world, tore the mansion to kindle, a great mushroom shaped cloud rising to the sky, sucking the air in and expelling it out again, all in the blink of they eye.


As the sky cleared again and people lifted themselves from the dust and debris, smoke clogging the air and chocking lungs, shards of wood and lumps of scorched masonry littering the entire district, there came a muffled called. From where, most could not fathom, but Ralf, who’s ears were keener than most, pointed to the pile of rubble that was the mansion of the Jagare family.

Sweeping the dust and tossing the rubble away, they discovered a hand, the fingers outstretched, reaching for the warmth of the sun. Sensing the light, it quickly began clawing at the rubble, desperate to get free.

It was miss Jagare who found Crom’s reddened face, his mouth spitting out dirt and obscenities. Carefully, they began to pull him free, calling for a healer. In the confusion that erupted, people digging for other survivors, Crom looked up into the deep green eyes of Jenna.
“I can pay for everything…” He started, but the sweet Jenna placed one finger on his dusty lips, before pushing her own against his.

Trapped beneath a pile of expensive rubble, his limbs unable to move, Crom had finally found a measure of peace in his life. He smiled.


“It is with great pride, and sorrow, that I present this day, the ‘Crown of Knights’ to our cities very own saviour… long may he live in the halls of our city, and in the hearts of our folk!”

These were some of the last words Crom had heard as he rode from the great gates of Kirimar, a small pennant of red flapping above his head in the light breeze, a new crown of gold upon his heavy brow.

As he rode out of view, the shouting and praise of the city folk merging with the sounds of the bird calls and wash of wind through the trees, he slipped the crown off with one hand, admiring the gems and diamonds studded in its freshly cast metal.

Slowly he shook his head, pursing his lips. He smiled weakly, pulling the old worn leather crown of the mercenary from one of his many gold stuffed saddle bags. With a quick glance at the blade wrapped in the sheep skin and the satchel holding the adamantine chain, he shook his head and smiled again, this time a little stronger.

Finally making up his mind, he slipped the old leather crown over his brow and pulled the reigns of his steed, tossing the new crown over his shoulder, galloping off into the distance in a plume of dust, just as he had when entering the city gates.

From the walls of Kirimar, hiding behind a veil of gold silk stood Jenna, the crowds waving and cheering, Ralf by her side. She would miss the north man deeply.

Had he stayed, she was certain that they would have found love with one another. Yet, as she spoke to the battered Crom, she had learned that there was another, who’s love and affection had earned her the undying feelings of the powerful north man. Saddened by this news, she could never have told the mercenary how she felt for him. In this, she knew that she had sacrificed something great, and that, for some reason, she had given up her eternal happiness for a man she barely knew.

Deep down, she knew that what she had done was for the best, some how feeling that in doing so, she had helped destiny turn its cogs, sending the strange man from the north yet further into his fate.
“Come Milady, we have much work to finish… Logan said you wanted to learn about the north men? I believe Logan is from near there, perhaps you should talk him into telling you… I, err, just happen to have a bottle of ‘North mans bile’ … should do the trick.”

Jenna nodded, waving to the north man as he turned to face the people he had saved for one last time.


“Helena? There’s a delivery here, for you of all people… seems you’ve been bedding the best recently.”

Helena drifted down the rickety wooden stairs, the other girls of the Harem gathering in the hallway, chattering excitedly to each other. The young girl, barely eighteen, inspected the parcel left to her by some unknown admirer.
“Who’s it from my dear?” The other girls asked excitedly.

Helena pulled at the tough string, unwrapping the parcel eagerly. It was a box, a plain wooden box. Something inside jingled promisingly. Slowly, it dawned on the young Helena…

The north man, the mercenary who had promised what she had heard a hundred times before, from a hundred different men. Could it be, that the man she had spent that night with, a man who had touched and caressed her like a loving husband, actually meant what he had promised.
“Girls, pack your things… we’re leaving.”
“Watcha mean?” They laughed.
“We have enough here to buy freedom… we’re going home!”

--- --- --- ---

you made it this far? I'm impressed, thanks!
R/R/R if your eyes have stopped bleeding, or just a comment. Thanks for your time folks!

Cheers,

Ferris