The Frostlands

The Cause and Effect

   Okála finally arrived at the entrance to the tomb. Just one small problem.
   "Bows. Krüth," cursed Okála. Archers had been a key role in the near destruction of his tribe. While they shot at the Draconic Barbarians from hundreds of feet away, the tribe ran around in confusion. No other tribe used bows. They were a coward's weapons. If anything, they threw axes or javelins. It was outsiders that attacked.
   Okála returned to the present. He had to get past them. He could try to sneak, but it would be in broad daylight and full view of the snipers in their stone towers. Trying to talk was out of the question. They'd speak Dwarfish, and Okála didn't know any of that language.
   It looked like he was going to have to rush them. Two snipers and two door guards. It was about sixty feet. If he sprinted, he'd be there in seconds, but would the snipers be that quick?
   Didn't matter. He'd make it or he wouldn't, no amount of thinking would change that fact. He drew his great-sword, and charged at the doors, screaming like the warrior he was. The fearless undead sure felt fear, as they jumped in surprise as this shiny red lizard savage charged without the slightest sign of fear.
   Okála arrived in three seconds at the first undead, swinging his huge blade at its neck. To stunned to block, it stood there dumbly. Had the blade missed?
   Apparently not, as the undead fell to his knees and its skull fell to the side, bouncing once on the ground. It never even drew its hand-ax. The other recovered in time to draw its two daggers. The dwarf ran at him, spinning around with his razor sharp, if rusty, blades. It was impossible to tell where the blades would strike. Luckily, he didn't have to. He held out the sword's point, and the brain-dead dwarf impaled himself.
   Okála took the blade out and turned as he heard the sounds of footsteps. The archers had descended their towers, abandoning their bows for short-swords. The two waved their blades at him, cursing him in Dwarfish. They charged him at the same time, both in blind rage and coming at him from his front. One was at his right, the other, his left. So, he took his great-sword and swung it at the one on his right, completely horizontal and at the neck. It cut cleanly through, with the undead about five feet away. Just as the other was on him, it sliced through its neck. Its original strike at Okála's neck was now jolted into his left arm, but it didn't hit with enough force to slice through his Draconic scales. At worse, there would be a bruise under the scales.
   He kicked the archer's body. "Damn cowards need worse," he said. He sheathed his great-sword and looked at the barrow's entrance. It wasn't too dark inside, due to torches. Torches. Undead wouldn't need those, or be smart enough to make them. Something living was in the crypts.
   He continued inside, bringing out his hand-axes. Whatever was inside, it would die.

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   Moving down the halls as quietly as he could, he soon came upon a tomb for nobles, or perhaps ancient heroes. There were several sarcophagi, more than likely containing the bodies of ancient dwarves. On each sarcophagus was an emblem of a weapon, or tool. There were the emblems of a pair of crossed daggers, a battle ax, a sword and shield, and a mystical flame. These were probably heroes of an ancient kingdom. Okála had no interest in looting the bodies. The honored dead deserved to stay honored. There was a door in the left wall, leading deeper into the tomb. Following this passage, he came to the throne room of the ancient kingdom's king and queen. The two are five feet apart, and sit upright, as if still ruling their bygone cities. Okála walked by them carefully, wary that they might return from their rest. However, they didn't stir in the slightest. Satisfied that they would stay dead, he turned to face the back of the room; and the back of a strange man in black robes. Readying a throw of his ax, he called to him, "Defiler! Leave or die!"
   The man, an elf by his ears and necromancer by the skull on his robe's front, turned in surprise. "Ahh, how wonderful," he said, "another one to become my slave. I'll give you a generous three seconds to turn around and walk away before I send a legion of undead to kill you."
   "Send legion! It good warm-up," replied Okála.
   "If you insist."
   The elf pointed at a doorway to his right. "Slaves," he called, "do your master's will! Kill this savage and bring me what remains of him!"
   From the doorway entered seven undead. One wore armor of a gold colored metal, and had a war-hammer slung across his back. He was a commander once, but was now reduced to the commanded. The other six wielded standard hand-axes and shields, basic infantry equipment.
   "Last chance," said the necromancer. "Leave or die."
   "Die!" replied Okála. "You die!"
   He threw his two axes at the necromancer, but two of the lesser undead intercepted them with their own heads.
   "A pity," the elf said, "I was hoping you weren't as dumb as you look."
   Okála drew his sword and flew into a Barbaric rage. In a fluid and powerful array of slashes and stabs, he killed four of the remaining undead, removing arms and heads and even torsos without taking a single hit, until it was him, the necromancer, and the commander. The commander brought out his hammer, which was easily forty pounds and four feet long, and charged Okála. Okála ducked beneath his swing and rushed in for a stab at the gut, but his blade chinked off the golden armor. The commander swung down at Okála's head, and missed, crushing the stone underneath into pebbles. Finally, as Okála came in from behind for a blow at the undead's neck, the undead managed to hit him in the chest. It was a glancing blow, but sent him flying back a few feet, dropping his sword and landing near a corpse of a lesser undead. The commander walked over to him.
   "End this," hissed the elf.
   As the commander raised his massive hammer, Okála gripped something.
   "Damn right, end," he said, and threw a hand-ax at the necromancer.
   It flew at him, and landed head first into his skull. The commander stood above Okála, shuddered, and fell backwards. Okála stood back up. "Coward need worse," he simply said, and retrieved his weapons and the armor of the commander.