ripshark

hey, this is just the first part of my epic tale of fantasy, elven pornstars and other things. . . . read it, 's good! and please tell me what you think after (I'm gonna try getting it published as a proper novel soon, i've already written about 1/2 of it. . . . )



StormBlade: Legend of the Burning Virgin

Prologue

Dirty low clouds stained the morning sky. The suns played an interstellar game of hide and seek with the wind and clouds, casting gigantic shadows that engulfed the mountainous landscape. It was mid autumn, winter was near and a threat to anyone wondering in the wilderness. A man riding a Hun battle mount galloped over the low rise in to the Valley of the Dog with no Legs (Natives in this part of the world had a lot of imagination). He galloped down towards the small stream weaving through the insignificant valley. There was no tree cover, not this high up, only thick, lush grass.
The altitude that the man was at was about 12,000 feet above sea level, not that anyone that lived in these parts was counting. Over the figures’ back was slung an enormous double-edged black sword with hundreds of intricate runes carved into its blade. The man was wearing a thick bear fur coat; his bulging muscles were obvious beneath it. Just as he urged the horse over the stream, he turned his head and looked back. Over the small rise he could see the gigantic sheer wall that was the Tai-khan cliffs, and the legendary city that sprawled vertically, clinging precariously on the cliff face. The building were carved out of the living rock, the only way to get from house to house was either by ladder or steep stairs. Horses could not get up there, hoofs not the right shape he supposed.
He was to turn back and continue on his journey to nowhere when suddenly, the sound of hoofs thudding against damp soil came unnervingly close. Not for him, he had just expected it to come earlier. Faster then any law of physics dictates, he leapt from the horse and slapped its battle-scarred rump to spur it over the other side of the valley. In the same instant, he turned and drew the black blade.
“You’re in shit now,” exclaimed a shrill metallic voice that sounded almost like sharpened steel ingots being scraped over a rusted iron sheet. “I did warn you, they’d come after me. You’re up to it right to your thick dull head!”
“Shut up.” It was stated more like a fact more then a demand. “Shut up, and if you say another word you’ll spend the next thousand years at the bottom of a lake somewhere.” Said the gruff voice. On the hilt of the sword, there were three red jewels. They weren’t special in particular, but he always felt as if he was being stared at by the sword. There and then, he vowed to himself that, if he ever got out of those damn mountains alive, he would sell the sword to the first trader he saw. Ever since he had taken it from the pedestal in the Tai-khan’s Cliff Temples main chamber, he had been regretting every minute of it. ‘Hi, you’re new around here! My names Darius the magical sword!’ That was the first thing that it had said to him. Right now, the Temple of Seth of the Seventeen Tentacles seemed a much better option.
“Hey! Over here! Help!” screamed the shrill metallic voice. At that moment, six yak men all clad in the scant garb of the inner-sanctum guard emerged from behind the rise. They were all riding squat thin yaks, they didn’t look like much, but he knew that they could reach alarming speeds on mountain paths.
“Now you, shut up! Do you really want to go back to sitting around on that pedestal all day?” he told the sword.
“I liked it.” Said the sword in a small, but shrill voice. All the guards on the yaks dismounted, it was impossible to fight from a yak. There were six of them in total; all of them drew six very sharp swords. They weren’t magical though, he thought, but then again that could be to their advantage. None of their blades insult their wielders, or try to decapitate them, as he had found a little too late for comfort. They all advanced at the same time, it as going to be a six on one assault.
“Give up now. Give us back the sword and we’ll let you go free.” He didn’t reply. He didn’t have anything to say. Instead, he raised the sword, with some resistance, above his right shoulder and put his left foot slightly in front of himself. “Look, just hand over the blade or we’ll just pry it from your dead fingers!”
“Are they all going to attack at once?” inquired a voice like rasping steel.
“Yah” he said.
“That’s pretty uneven odds, isn’t it?” said the black blade.
“Yah, I outnumber them one to six.”
“You arrogant barbarian!” exclaimed one if the men, still taking no action. He had seen how fast this barbarian could move. He didn’t think it possible for such a big man to move so fast.

Snow capped peaks loomed over the small figures in the valley. Far above the small figures, far above the dirty low clouds was a single speck. It was a Golden Eagle. It soared high above the insignificant figures. Its mind was currently occupied by three individuals, witches at that, and they were making good use of the Eagles excellent eyesight.
“Do you think he might be the one?” asked the type of voice you would normally associate with a dozen jugs of empty ale, all paid for by some one else.
“Well, that depends.” answered a gruff, old voice.
“Depends on what?” asked the third witch, who had the sort of voice you would expect from an eight year old, which was exactly what she was.
“Well, whether he survives or not, I suppose.” Said the second witch.
“That other one back in the Gab Desert only had to face one giant scorpion, and he didn’t last very long.” Stated the first witch.
“Yea? Well that’s because he wasn’t good enough.” The second witch answered back angrily.
“Don’t you think that he should have had a bit of a handicap and all? You know, on the fact that he only had one eye?” said the third witch in a high-pitched voice usually accompanied by teddy bears.
“No. We’ve got to take them as they are.” Said the gruff voice of the second witch.
“Yes, but then again he only had one leg as well.” Came the reply of the first witch.
“Oh shut up, I don’t care anyway. We are looking for the very best. Shh! Keep quiet, he’s about to start fighting!”
“What’s his name?” she didn’t get a reply from the other two witches. They were concentrating on the spectacle being played out hundreds of feet below them.

Dust that had enveloped Darius for hundreds of years was now washed off in the blood of its first victim in as many years. Ancient senses and the blood lust, which formed its very heart and soul, were rekindled as it now was joyfully wielded by the barbarian. The blade hummed a bloody tune as the barbarian went for the second guard. His movements were so fast, that the guard didn’t even see the black streak that pierced his gut. The next guard was ready though, and as the barbarian’s blade was still in the flesh of his comrade, he raised his sword for the killing thrust at the exposed flank of the barbarian. Due to unaccountable years of barbarianism, what came next was almost totally due to the reflexes alone. The Barbarians right hand shot up from where it gripped Darius and clamped firmly on the throat of the guard about to attack him, jerking the guard off his feet. Then, in one fluid movement that could be compared with crude ballet, and using his massive strength, he tossed the helpless guard into the air, and, yanking the blade free of the suction from the flesh of the second guard performed a turn, both hands gripping the Darius now, and cleaving the body of the guard who had attacked him in to two half guards.
The remaining three guards suddenly recalled a dozen better things they could be doing that morning, and fled from the scene of carnage.
“Cowards! Come back!” Shrieked Darius, not because he wanted to be saved but because he was drunk on blood lust. He had remembered what it was like to be used by a skilled swordsman, the pure joy of doing what he was made for. The barbarian squatted by the stream, first cleaning the blade on the grass and then bathing it for a moment in the stream. He then stood up and put the sword back into the leather straps on his back. He then put two fingers in his mouth and gave a shrill deafening whistle. From over the rise beyond the valley came the thudding sound of the great horse Anthrax. Anthrax had no saddle or bridle, nothing whatsoever, not even a scrap of leather harness. All he had was two sacks of loot suspended by a hemp cord strung loosely where the saddle was meant to be. Only people Anthrax wanted them to ride him ever got close. A hoof the size of a large dish awaited anyone who didn’t fit that description. The barbarian mounted Anthrax easily, swinging a leg the size of a trunk over him, followed by the rest of him. He crouched low to the neckline of the horse and whispered something into his ear. The horse neighed and shook its main, massive muscles rippling beneath the thick black skin.
Almost immediately they set of at a steady trot, leaving the legendary city of Tai-Khan far behind, setting out for the distant plains of Fal-harem beyond the Tai mountains to the west, where the great city of Marrakech lay. The city of 10 000 whores. The barbarian wondered how many he could buy with the sword alone.
“What is your name barbarian?” came the voice like a rusty meat grinder.
“Eric.” Said the barbarian grudgingly.
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__________________
21.
Riddle me that, riddle me this;
What is it that I cannot miss?
Is it a mark, a place or a time?
Nay, a child of the now speaks not in rhyme.

Sneaky

Elric of Melnibone mixed with the eternal Warrior and Conan. shaken and stirred and served and it tastes none too bad.