The Harvest Wars - Part 1 - Awakening

CHAPTER ONE - Borgar

Thomas and John walked through the snow toward the green light they had seen. It was a good distance away from their perimeter, outside the edges of the camp by the towering firs.

"That's the brothers' perimeter," grumbled John, stomping behind Thomas.

Thomas stopped, turning toward him. "I have not seen them in a long time. Have you? Gerhard is also late on his round, so what do you want me to do?"

"Let's wait a bit longer," John argued. He was scared; Thomas could see it. "Tail-Turn-John" was what they also called him, for whenever they got into a bar fight, the only thing you could see of John was his back.

But this was no bar fight. The Cemnok Mountains were a dangerous region, full of places forgotten by time and gods alike. Legend had it there were whole cities that could be found here, carved into the mountains or hidden in the ravines. Grave reminders of the Forgotten Age, when monsters and undead walked the world in abundance. Both were defeated now, yet still remnants of them were said to haunt these forgotten outposts. And occasionally, the horrors of past ages ventured forth to get a taste of the living... At least that was what his grandmother had always told him, and to tease John, he told him this as well.

"Old wives' tales," John muttered nervously, his voice getting higher as his gaze began to dart around, piercing the shadows.

Thomas allowed himself a smile as he stomped through the snow. "There is nothing in the dark you have to be afraid of," he said over his shoulder. "At least if you keep your eyes peeled. The brothers probably—"

He ran into something solid, stumbled backward, and fell on his back, blood shooting from his nose. He felt as if he had walked into a brick wall.

"What the...?" Thomas murmured.

His eyes watered, and he did not dare to trust them as the shape of a giant warrior gradually appeared in front of him, the invisibility that had shrouded him dissipating like water dripping from a wet body.

"Oh shit," he heard John say, and then, living up to his nickname, he turned and ran. In this moment, Thomas could not blame him.

The warrior was huge—bigger than any man he had ever seen. Standing at least seven feet tall and as massive as a lighthouse, he was clad in leather breeches held up by a war belt with a shoulder strap that ran over his bare chest. The haft of a giant two-handed sword loomed up behind a wild mane of white hair, and an equally impressive braided beard flowed onto his muscular chest. His skin was like bleached leather and covered by old scars, his wrinkled face and balding brow betraying his age. At least sixty winters, Thomas thought, but with more muscles than two strong men half his age.

"Little man," the titan said, his voice like stones grinding together. His ham-sized fist reached for the hilt of the sword. It was then that Thomas got a good look at the belly of the towering brute. Right atop the war belt, his stomach was split open from left to right, loops of frozen entrails dangling from it. A rumbling laugh rose from the warrior.

Thomas wanted to crawl away, to grab his sword. He couldn't. Unearthly terror had him frozen solid. Deliberately slow, the barbarian pulled the weapon free, the moonlight reflecting from the wavy blade. The sword was as long as the barbarian was tall, the blade easily two hands wide and two fingers thick directly below the cross guard. Its weight must have been tremendous, yet still the warrior had lifted the blade with but one arm. He held it high over his head in a display of bravado; then it descended, and Silverblaze skewered Thomas like a needle through a butterfly.

Two feet of steel had sliced through his body before the terror subsided long enough for him to grab the blade of Silverblaze to avoid further impalement.