Soulblades by Jonathan Moeller

Author:Jonathan Moeller [Moeller, Jonathan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Science Fiction & Fantasy, Fantasy, epic fantasy, Historical, Ficção Científica E Fantasia, Fantasia, Épico, Histórico, frostborn, ridmark arban, calliande, sevenfold sword
ISBN: 1230002300436
Amazon: B07CRPNKJ6
Publisher: Azure Flame Media, LLC
Published: 2018-04-28T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 6: Swords

I led the way into the great hall of the keep.

It had been built in the style preferred by the orcish warlords of the Wilderland. I don’t know how the orcs of Owyllain prefer to construct their dwellings, but the orcs of Andomhaim usually build round houses with domed roofs. The hall of the keep had been raised in that style, with a huge domed ceiling arching overhead. It had been constructed well enough to last the centuries. A single oculus was in the apex of the dome, likely to allow smoke from the firepit in the center of the hall to escape. The firepit was cold and dark. At the far end of the round chamber was a dais, and atop the dais rested a throne assembled from rough-hewn boulders, its arms and its back adorned with ancient orcish skulls.

I had hoped to leave the Crow Lord’s diadem on the throne and depart, but it was too late for that.

A huge undead orc sat upon the throne, the hilt of a black sword in his right hand. Male orcs generally stand about six or seven feet tall, but this one was at least eight and a half feet and wore black armor like that of the warrior I had defeated in the courtyard. This armor was of finer design, and the cuirass had been adorned with reliefs of crows in flight. The undead orc also wore a cloak of crow feathers, and orcish skulls adorned his shoulders and hung from his belt. Likely he had taken the skulls as trophies of defeated foes.

“God preserve us,” said Ventus, clutching the diadem like a shield. “That is him. That’s the Crow Lord himself.”

The undead orc rose from his throne as we walked through the door. In his right hand, he carried a long black sword, sigils of blood fire burning up the length of its blade. A black helmet covered most of his skull, blue fire dancing in the empty eye sockets. Next to the skulls on his belt, I saw a sheathed longsword in a crumbling leather scabbard. Most probably it was another trophy, or perhaps a backup weapon in case he lost his main sword.

The Crow Lord stepped from the dais and lifted his weapon.

“You have awakened me from my long sleep,” he said, his voice a deep rasp as he spoke in archaic orcish. “Long have I slept, and long has it been since my sword has tasted the blood of my foes. But now I wake again to undeath, and the only pleasure left to me is to kill. So, kill I shall, and I shall wash the hills with the blood of humans.”

“Take your crown and go back to sleep,” I said, pointing Oathshield at him. The white fire around the blade brightened in response to the dark magic writhing around the Crow Lord. “Otherwise, you won’t even have undeath.”

The Crow Lord went motionless as only an undead creature can. Only leathery skin still clung to the skull, so he didn’t have an expression, but I heard him snarl.

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