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A short story- one of many soon to come- about a hellish battle.
Based on the account of Drag Gragsson, a dwarven warrior.
We were drinking and making merry on a fine eve, whence a dreadful silence came upon us. Some of the veterans of many battles started muttering and reaching for their weapons, and I knew naught what to expect. Even the King was glancing around and resting his hand on his axe, as if he was in great peril. We tried to continue our sport, but found we were unable; the fear was too great.
Suddenly, without warning, huge brutish shapes filled the gloom. It seemed as if the underworld had sent its minions to carry us to our doom. With a cry, one of the veterans unsheathed his sword and plunged headlong at the beasts. Unsure what to do, the rest of us followed suite. Our foes were deadly and silent, with massive amounts of strength; I witnessed one of them tear a man’s head off with one hand. I myself hacked at the darkness with the prowess that only one who knows he is going to die can manage.
Throughout the carnage, I saw naught of the enemy’s faces. They seemed to be masked in the gloom, a hellish reminder that we were fighting the very servants of Hel herself. Even after the figures had retreated into the darkness did the fear linger, eager to thrust a man into its eagerly waiting jaws.
I was fortunate to survive, as many of our number did not, and those who did were constantly checking the darkness for a sign of the beast’s return. I recall that the monsters left no dead behind, so we never glimpsed their hellish countenances, nor the size or strength of their beastly bodies.
Fatigued though I am by it, I still remember the night with much fondness. It was the first time I ever met and beat Death itself.
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