‹ Prequel: Ninety Days of Water
Status: Active.
Tundra
Chapter XII – Fall – Part III
The noise rose like a tide, swelling over the trestle tables and spilling the last life blood of the drinks. The wave of clamour surged, rising off the fur rugs and throwing up manes of gold and silver like salt spray.
The stranger who had spoken was hostile, and he and his men were attacking. With a sword so thin that, turned on its side, it was almost invisible, yet which seemed to strike heavy like a claymore, the dark-haired young man sliced. Even the air moaned, mortally wounded, where his weapon swung. Soon, half the diners lay dead, and Furon found himself fleeing. Turon was not far behind him.
No words were spoken as they flew down the steps, nearly slipping in the blood that was pooling there, running over each log in cascades like a waterfall. Outside, the snowstorm had become a blizzard, and the world was white as ice. Nevertheless, something loomed through the gloom, something towering and red. It could not have been a man, although it was man-shaped. It rumbled with a throaty call that could not have come from a human throat. This was the call of bad magic; the call of the wild. Then, the fungus giant swiped with its boulder sized fists, and Furon was no more.
The stranger who had spoken was hostile, and he and his men were attacking. With a sword so thin that, turned on its side, it was almost invisible, yet which seemed to strike heavy like a claymore, the dark-haired young man sliced. Even the air moaned, mortally wounded, where his weapon swung. Soon, half the diners lay dead, and Furon found himself fleeing. Turon was not far behind him.
No words were spoken as they flew down the steps, nearly slipping in the blood that was pooling there, running over each log in cascades like a waterfall. Outside, the snowstorm had become a blizzard, and the world was white as ice. Nevertheless, something loomed through the gloom, something towering and red. It could not have been a man, although it was man-shaped. It rumbled with a throaty call that could not have come from a human throat. This was the call of bad magic; the call of the wild. Then, the fungus giant swiped with its boulder sized fists, and Furon was no more.