A tale by Mhoram

[Mhoram]

Part 1 of The Holy Sword:

Swiftwind’s hooves clattered down the pebble strewn ravine that led to the undead lair. Mhoram sat astride Swiftwind, hail and sleet clattering off his armour, thunder pealing overhead and his cloak flying like a banner behind him in the shrieking wind.
His ship lay anchored two miles back at the shore of this icy island. Its crew had braved the stormy seas for their captain and had set up a rough camp awaiting his return.
Mhoram had come to this isle for two reasons; to slay the hated undead, and to gain the fabled Holy Sword.
Ancient tomes found in his previous captor’s now deserted lair had occasionally referred to a long lost sword of great Holy power, dangerous to the undead. The tomes had also said that the sword was guarded by undead legions far to the north east on an isle of ice.
Mhoram had decided to go in search of the isle, and the sword.

Mhoram reached the end of the ravine. A large opening could be seen ahead.
Checking his map, he confirmed this to be the entrance to the undead lair. The place had a dark chill in the air that seemed to seep through the tiny gaps in his armour. He shivered momentarily before steeling his nerve and setting Swiftwind into a trot closer to the entrance.
Mhoram dismounted and took a long length of rope from the horse’s saddle-bag. Then, taking a large metal stake from the bag, he hammered it into the ground with the pommel of his sword. Tying one end of the rope to the stake and the other end to Swiftwind, he gave it one quick tug to ensure it was secure and, just to keep the horse happy, fed him a few apples.
Swiftwind grunted in approval and made short work of the fruit, much as he always did.
With that taken care of, Mhoram took a quick glance around making sure he was alone. Unsheathing his long-sword, he strode defiantly toward the lair entrance.

Inside, the lair was lit by torches that blazed in iron brackets. As Mhoram took in his surroundings, he appreciated that it was not as dark and web ridden as he had imagined it would be, but knowing this only served to make him more uneasy. It meant the place was inhabited by just more than mindless zombies…
In reality, the lair was more like an underground castle with masonry, flagstones and high ceilings. Looking more closely revealed plenty of dark corners where spiders and other such reclusive creatures might lurk.
Mhoram continued down the hall that had begun after descending the steps from the lair entrance. The rhythmical noise of metal on stone as he walked echoed around the stone walls. Every so often he would stop, only to be greeted by an eerie silence.
He hadn’t alerted anyone so far with his clanking, but he decided he might be better off making as little noise as possible as he proceeded deeper into the lair.
Slowly, Mhoram edged forward, his metal boots now making a quieter scraping sound against the stone and not echoing so loudly. Glimpsing ahead through his visor, he could see doorways to the left and right along the hall. They seemed to be open, but still he could hear nothing. Looking further ahead he could see steps in the distance. They lead upward, but the top seemed shrouded in darkness.
Mhoram decided he would investigate the first opening he came to on his left. Something in his bones didn’t feel right, but then again, he was in an undead lair, and he dismissed the thought.
Mhoram inched forward further, going more slowly, more cautiously now. Still he could hear nothing. The open doorway stood just three feet from him. A dim light issued forth from the room inside. Something caught Mhoram’s eye momentarily, a flickering shadow perhaps, but he could not be sure.
He moved closer, the doorway right before him. Glancing at an angle he could make out part of the room inside. Bookshelves were on the far wall, but more than that, he could not see.
Steeling his nerve he rounded the corner to stand in the doorway. He jumped in shock as a skull stared right back at him, mere inches from his face. Its jaw hung open, its eye sockets seeming to stare right through him.
There in front of him stood a skeleton, as tall as he at a full six feet in height. It twitched slightly and Mhoram noticed it carried a rusty sword and a large round shield of bronze.
Mhoram leapt back, his sword held high ready to strike. Something caught his eye again and he looked down at the skeletons shield to notice the reflection of a mummy standing directly behind him.
Smashing his shield into the skeleton sent it flying backwards. Mhoram ran forward, crushing its skull underfoot and whirled round with his sword to strike the oncoming mummy full on in the chest. Again and again he hacked at the lifeless corpse before him until it fell, finally, dismembered at his feet.
Mhoram roared in defiance at his assailants, the sound of his voice echoing all the way through the lair. And the sound of a hundred silent screams came rushing back in answer.

To be continued…