His back now to the wall, Odar would not relent. He cast off his dented helmet and peered out between strands of his long, graying black hair as it clung to his sweat and blood soaked face. His arrow and spear pierced shield was still strapped to his broken left arm, the jagged, battered edges and iron boss tore painfully into the flesh beneath.
Suddenly, the elves and lizard men drew back and grew silent and the song on Odar’s lips faded. The only sounds were the cries of the dying and crackle of licking flames as the warlock strode through the carnage to stand before the gore covered human.
“Well met valiant human,” said the warlock, bowing slightly at the waist. “Allow me to introduce myself, I am Khirgar Battleclaw, and this is the sword of Eitri.” Khirgar dipped the end of the black blade into a pool of blood on the ground. An obscene shudder passed over the elf’s face as the hideous sword appeared to soak up the thick red liquid, pulsing as if it had a heartbeat.
”We are here to take back what is ours,” the feral elf sorcerer said in a soft, lyrical almost sing song voice. His red eyes were glazed over, and all around him, blue painted savages and reptilian children of Sobek stood in rapt amazement.
”And pass judgment on your kind!” boomed the warlock suddenly, pointing the strange sword at Odar, anger flashing in his evil eyes. “You will pay for the crimes of your ancestors with your blood, and your soul!”
Growling like a cornered animal, Odar leaped at the warlock, swinging his axe before him and raising his shield. With lightening speed, Khirgar side stepped the human’s murderous rush and swung his black sword down on the Rath commander’s upraised shield with two hands. Sparks flew among a red mist as the blade cut through shield, chain mail, flesh and bone.
In his rage, Odar barely noticed his injured arm, severed at the elbow and gouting blood, he turned and swung his axe where Khirgar had been a moment before. But the wizard moved with magical speed, stepping behind the raging human. Once again his black glaive licked out like a serpent’s tongue, cutting through mail rings, parting flesh and muscle. The evil blades razor sharp tip sliced through human vertebrae and ribs, and ropey wads of gore followed in its blurring wake.
Dropping his axe, Odar fell to his knees; the injury to his spine making his limbs numb. Yet, the warrior was still defiant. He looked up at the feral elf standing over him, his gaze filled with hatred.
“Brynhalla,” Odar mouthed silently, and he saw the sweeping, two handed swing of the black blade, which parted his head from his body.
The headless corpse fell forward, still twitching and blood pooled around the warlocks leather wrapped feet. A grayish red mist began to issue forth from Odar Mackai’s lifeless body, gathering in the air above the onlooker’s heads. Then, with a bloodcurdling scream, the mist shot toward the tip of the sorcerer’s upraised blade as thunder boomed and lightening cracked through the scudding black storm clouds. The warlock laughed maniacally while the energy of Odar’s warrior soul and spirit flowed into him through his pulsing black sword; the ancient, evil sword of Eitri.