Even Gods Must Fall - Christian Warren Freed Page 0,1

wave of Goblins pouring into Delranan. Thousands, perhaps tens of thousands of the vile creatures already choked the fields. Harsh, guttural orders were issued as Goblins slowly broke away into companies. Sword and axe, spear and tulwar gleamed in the morning sunlight.

“Where did they come from?” Bjorn whispered.

Eldric could only shake his head. A flicker of unnatural light caught his eye, drawing his attention to the magic-infused atmosphere on a small hilltop. The very air was warped with sickening shades of rot. Larger than a house, the rent continued to belch forth the Goblin army. Unending waves of infantry flooded Delranan.

“How?” was all Eldric managed to ask.

Frightened yet not understanding what he was seeing, Bjorn nervously clutched his brother’s arm. “We need to leave, before they see us.”

Eldric continued to stare as the Goblin army grew. He briefly considered killing one, if for no other reason than to brag to his friends, but quickly discarded the notion. Any unwanted attention would draw the entire horde down around him and there’d be no hope of escape. Not against so many. Reluctantly, he withdrew his gaze from the Goblins, creatures he’d only heard of. To see so many in Delranan this close to his home was impossible.

Bjorn, sensing his brother’s hesitation, tugged harder. “Eldric, come on. We have to go warn the village.”

Shaken free from the horrible scene continuing to unfold around them, Eldric nodded and began to duck back into the trees. Unfortunately for the brothers it was not unnoticed. Three squat, barrel-bodied Goblins emerged from the right and attacked. Bjorn cried out, dropping his bow as his small hands scrambled to draw his hunting knife strapped to his belt. Eldric was not so careless. He quickly drew and fired into the nearest Goblin, more reflex than anything else. The Goblin grunted and fell dead. Eldric’s arrowhead punched out the back of the dead warrior, killing him instantly at point-blank range. The other two fell on the young villager with curses and sharp steel. Bjorn screamed as he watched a Goblin short sword plunge into Eldric’s stomach.

Eldric fought with as much veracity as a sixteen-year-old boy could but the end was never in doubt. He briefly caught his brother’s eye through the punishment. A sad smile followed. Blood coated his teeth. “Run,” he mouthed and fell dead.

Bjorn ran for his life without looking back.

The impossible army continued to swell.

* * * * *

Thunder echoed down from the mountaintops yet no lightning slashed the sky. No storm darkened the world. This was the thunder of two hundred booted feet. Locked in step, the heavy crunch-thump reverberated down through the jagged rock passes, knocking boulder and stone loose in massive cascades. Avalanches filled long-forgotten defiles and ravines. Dust clouds rose to choke the air. Red and heavily mineralized, the dust was the life blood of the very mountains.

Song soon accompanied the baritone of the march. Deep and ominous, the words were lost upon the rocks. Their meaning, however, wasn’t. The song returned a forgotten people to old glories they’d abandoned for personal reasons. It whispered of past triumphs and the promise of new glory. There was unparalleled pride drifting on the winds. At last, after centuries of seclusion and the continuing downward spiral into obscurity, the Giants of Venheim were reborn.

Called into action by the Dae’shan and the gods of light, the Giants couldn’t abandon the rest of the world to the depredations of the evil threatening. The arguments proved fierce, lasting long into the early morning hours. The outcome was never truly in doubt. At long last the time for Giants had returned. Coerced to march down from the mountaintop fortresses, the Giants headed into Delranan to claim their rightful place in the future history of the world.

Joden, eldest and most revered of the Giant smiths, paused at the rear of the column to give a last, longing glance at the home he’d known for over one hundred years. He knew, deep within the warmth of his soul, that this would be his final look at fabled Venheim. Old and fragile--for a Giant--he’d lived a long, full life. The world was changing, irrevocably moving towards a finale very few even realized approached.

The elder Giant had come to accept that his purpose in life had been to train, mold, and sculpt young Groge into the bearer of the Blud Hamr, the weapon capable of ending the dark gods’ quest to reclaim Malweir for good. The war would be fought by blood and steel,