Post by jackbull on Dec 28, 2010 0:34:33 GMT -5
A bolt of lightning flashed across the night sky. From their position at the bottom of the hill the nervous soldiers looked up and saw the menacing silhouette of a behemoth on the skyline. From their brief glimpse it was obvious to all that this was no ordinary man. He stood tall and wide, his muscles like miniature hills of their own.
A rumble of thunder rolled over the mountain, as if to emphasise the dread posed by their opponent. Another flash of lighting arced across the sky behind him and this time they could see his warhammer being held to the side. They knew of his skill in wielding it. They knew that many of them would fall beneath its head before this night was done.
Again the thunder rumbled and rolled over them. Standing on the top of the rocky mountain, Brett Cross looked up to the sky. His face was hit by one raindrop, then another, and then all at once came a flurry of them. The downpour took mere seconds to drench him.
He stared back down at the horde of soldiers arrayed before him. In the blossom of the lightning’s glare he had seen their faces. At once he recognised their fear. Even though he was but one man stood before a hundred, it was they who were anxious, they who prayed that battle would not take place.
Cross smiled and brought the handle of his hammer back across his chest, clasping it now with both of his mighty hands. He twisted them slightly on the handle, feeling the slight burning sensation as the wood resisted. His grip felt good; comfortable. It was a comfort born through a near lifetimes use of the weapon.
It felt light in his hands. The balance was perfect, the hammer head selected specifically for his own person. He wielded it with the ease of a feather, but everyone on that mountain knew that it would strike like an anvil. One blow could cleave a mans skull open, and the shields they all held would offer scant shade from the brilliant blaze of his strikes.
Maybe that was why nobody moved. Maybe their fear gripped them such that they were unable to come any closer? Maybe it was the poor footing now offered by the slick rocks that kept them at bay? Either way, Cross was getting tired of their hesitancy.
The temptation was to unleash his battle cry and simply roar down the hill into their midst. But instead he stood firm on his ground. As mighty a warrior as he was, he knew that descending from his advantageous position and putting himself in the middle of a hundred men would be courting disaster. Maybe it was decisions like this that made him a mighty warrior? Not just brawn, but brains as well.
He rolled his hammer through is hands once more, eager to join battle. It was then that he heard the sound of a foot slipping to his right. Almost automatically he turned to his right and there -- but a few feet away -- was a pair of now horrified eyes starring right at him. The soldier had attempted to sneak up on his flank and had come so close, but Cross’s highly tuned instincts had just sprung the ambush.
Now the predator became the prey.
Cross leaped forward almost effortlessly. For a man of his size it was a surprising display of agility. He used his hammer more like a spear, thrusting the head forward in a violent shot that struck against his enemies shield. His opponent stumbled on the slick rocks, opening both arms for balance. The set up had been perfect and now Cross brought his back foot flying through for a tremendous kick.
The scream of terror was horrifying. The men watching on felt a new chill down their spines as they saw their comrade, their best warrior, tumbling backwards down the hill in a series of sickening crunches and cracks. The sound of one man vacating his bowels put some of those at the rear to flight.
Cross now turned back to face the main body of his foes. He held the Hammer high above his head in both hands and now treated his enemy to a massive war cry that seemed to shake the very mountain itself. As the scream tailed off, the sound of another set of bowels being vacated could be heard.
Sensing that his men were failing, the leader of the group now gave out his own war cry and began to charge up the hill. Some at the back of the group now took the chance to stumble on the rocks and then not get back up, instead turning and slithering off into the night.
But not Cross. He stood his ground firmly and prepared to resist the new threat. He had picked his spot with absolute soundness of tactical judgement. The rocks to his left were piled unevenly to create a miniature valley, perhaps what had once been a track up the hill. It would funnel any opponents from that side into a single file column.
To his right the rocky crop fell away sharply. While this had provided some cover for the skilled warrior attempting the sneak attack, it would now be easy to defend given Cross’s awareness and his dominant position. To his front he had taken the time to liberally remove a few rocks. Not many, just enough to provide some awkward footing that would claim a few ankles and force his opponents to bunch together.
It was into this frontal position that the leader of this rabble now plunged. With an admirable degree of deftness he danced around the obvious holes and came flying at Cross with a furious downward slash of his sword. Cross didn’t even move. He merely raised his hammer and used the shaft to brush aside the attack before his opponents shield slammed ineffectually against him. The footing Cross had chosen coupled with a perfectly timed bend of the knees allowed him to absorb the blow in a strong stance.
His opponent recoiled, his face a mixture of shock and fear. It was the peculiar sight that few men get to see; the face of a man who suspects his death is imminent. In this case the mans suspicion was well founded. Driving with his left hand Cross brought the butt of the Hammer up violently under his foes chin, driving the head back with such force that a distinct crack could be heard emanating from the top of the mans spine.
His limp body tumbled backwards onto the cold and unforgiving rock.
The death of their leader now sapped what little momentum the force had left. Some stared up at Cross, the rain bouncing off his armour with the same futility as all of their attacks so far.
Cross grinned, seeing the fear in his enemies eyes. He understood what few village politician’s did; that war was as much psychological as physical. He knew in that brief look at the remaining soldiers that their confidence was gone. Not a single man now left on that mountain genuinely believed they could defeat Cross, even if they themselves didn’t realise it yet. Cross allowed himself a little chuckle. Then he broke the deadlock.
He turned to his left where the first man had made it up the defile. He leaped forward, landing with his left foot in a perfectly balanced spot and with his hammer swinging down to deliver a seemingly unstoppable blow. The soldier facing him raised his shield and cowered away from the inevitable strike.
But Cross had checked his hammers momentum, a feint used to force his enemies hand. Instead he lashed out with his right boot, driving the mans shield back and up, causing the soldier to stumble and fall into the path of his allies behind him. This would buy Cross time while he turned his attention elsewhere.
That he did with no hesitation. Stepping to his right he saw a feeble attacker come forward, a half hearted attempt to take his life. It was punished swiftly and thoroughly. Again Cross skilfully used the base of his hammer -- this time flicking his opponents sword thrust up and away -- before stabbing at his opponents face. The strike served merely as another distraction, another quick feint to conceal his true purpose.
Cross now brought the head of his war hammer up in a high arc and then pulled it down, crashing with a sickening thud onto his opponents head. He saw blood spurt violently from the mans nose as he collapsed in a heap at Cross’s feet. But Cross had no time to ponder the morality of taking a mans life. Instead he stepped again to his right.
Another man stepped forward and Cross now slid slightly to the left, drawing his opponent slightly onto a new line of advance. The mans right foot came down but found no solid rock to support it. Instead it disappeared into one of the holes Cross had manufactured. The soldiers foot was suddenly caught with nowhere to go as his weight went tumbling forward. The sound of a shin snapping rang out across the mountain top, followed immediately by a harrowing scream.
Again Cross shuffled across to the right as one foe had now nearly reached the top. Seeing Cross blocking his way the warrior swung his sword in a horizontal slash aimed at catching Cross’s belly, but Cross lowered the hammer handle to absorb the blow. It’s thick oak was barely scratched.
With the finesse of an expert warrior Cross began to spin round, using his hammer handle to sweep the sword to one side. As he came full circle Cross launched a thrusting strike with the head of his hammer, striking the bridge of his enemies nose. The man stumbled back, dropping his sword in the process.
But this was not a night for mercy.
Instead Cross went into a second spin, shifting his grip down as he did so. The head of the hammer was now extended and travelling at great speed on the outside edge of the circle Cross was creating. It only stopped when it made a sudden connection with the side of the mans skull.
His body was thrown sideways, thudding limply into the rocks. The looks of shock and horror were even more widespread now. It was enough of an effort for most of the men present just to remain standing. Only those to Cross’s left who had not seen the latest carnage wreaked by the Norse warrior made any effort to come forward still. To them Cross now turned his attention.
He roared as he made a one man charge for the defile. Forgoing any strike with his hammer he instead used his shoulder as a ram, ploughing into the shield of the lead man of three. The soldier was thrown backwards, his sword slipping from his grasp. But this time Cross maintained the pressure, swinging his hammer backhanded at the next man who had no time to react.
The blow was accurate and firm, clubbing the mans head and sending him spilling over the lip of the defile and back down the mountain. The third man reeled back in mere horror, stumbling down onto the rocks. Rather than fight on, the man turned to flee. But Cross pounced, bringing his hammer over his own head and drawing it down in a fearsome hit, in the manner that one might drive home a fence post.
The third man screamed briefly as his spinal column was snapped in half. Cross did not linger though. He turned once more and dashed back to the central position on the hill, where two men had now braved to venture. It was foolish. Cross couldn’t understand why they didn’t take the hint and run, while they still had the chance.
His first attacker tried a sword thrust, but it was so belaboured and telegraphed that Cross merely jumped to the right, dodging the attack easily. He grabbed the top of the mans shield with his left hand and pulled forward, dragging the man off balance. Using the momentum of the pull he pressed onward, bearing down on the second man in a flash.
Again he favoured the approach of using his massive mass to barge his opponent backwards, causing the enemy to stumble and lose focus. Cross again went back to his spin move, generating a huge swirl with the hammer before it crashed into the side of the mans knee cap.
The leg folded inwards in a manner legs are not supposed to. Cross felt the man would look back on this moment and count himself lucky. His life, if not his knee, had been spared. Rather, Cross wanted the psychological effect. He wanted to leave another man screaming on the battlefield in his apparent death throws. Hopefully it would serve to encourage the others to make their retreat a little more hastily.
But Cross had a more immediate worry. Behind him he heard the sound of footsteps. The other solider on the hill top was lining up another clumsy attack. Cross waited though, baiting his opponent into making the attack with the promise of an easy kill. At the last second he stepped adroitly to the right and spun 180 degrees, using his hammer to brush aside the miserable excuse for a death blow.
To finish the job, Cross now brought up the butt of the handle and struck his opponent cleanly in the back of the head. The extra punch from such a strong man as Cross sent the assailant-turned-victim flying forward and plunging into two more of his allies. The three of them collapsed backwards in a heap, yelling and flailing as they disappeared down the hillside and into the cloak of darkness.
Cross sent them away with a victorious yell.
Then a seconds silence. The advancing forces had stopped dead. No armour rattled, no swords clanged on the rocks. Not even a breath. Then the air was filled once more by the wailing of the dying. And the enemy morale was gone.
They started by back tracking. They picked their way back down the hill, step by step, never taking their eyes off the man mountain, the killing machine that stood before them. Sensing the battle won, Cross began to charge down the hill and almost at once, what had been a calm and professional withdrawal descended into a chaotic scramble down the hill.
With the rain covered rocks slippery to the touch, many lost their footing and began a violent and uncontrolled tumble down the slope. Some threw down their swords and shields in order to lighten the load. One man turned to the steep side to Cross’s right and in panic jumped, throwing his fate into the hands of the Gods. But the Gods were on Cross’s side this night. The sound of two legs shattering and the accompanying scream of abject pain were like the victory song for this great battle.
But far from resting, Cross meant to apply the pressure and drive home his victory to make it complete. He roared loudly as he followed the swarm of bodies down the hill, dancing from rock to rock with the acquired agility and skill of a lifetime of fighting. Yet more stragglers slipped and fell as they desperately looked back over their shoulders.
Cross estimated that more men would die tonight simply running away, than those that actually fell under his hammer. But then Cross stopped dead in his tracks. From the dark emerged a figure, the moonlight glistening off his armour. One among these mere mortals seemed prepared to challenge him.
As this last bastion standing in the way of total victory stepped forward, Cross could see he was dressed head to toe in some curious red uniform, his face covered by a strange mask. On the mans chest he could see a bright gold symbol, a lightning bolt that echoed the moody weather.
The man spoke;
“I, Dante Holly, defender of the nubile, challenge you to a duel evil doer!!”
Cross smiled. One last easy picking to overcome and the night would be his….
A rumble of thunder rolled over the mountain, as if to emphasise the dread posed by their opponent. Another flash of lighting arced across the sky behind him and this time they could see his warhammer being held to the side. They knew of his skill in wielding it. They knew that many of them would fall beneath its head before this night was done.
Again the thunder rumbled and rolled over them. Standing on the top of the rocky mountain, Brett Cross looked up to the sky. His face was hit by one raindrop, then another, and then all at once came a flurry of them. The downpour took mere seconds to drench him.
He stared back down at the horde of soldiers arrayed before him. In the blossom of the lightning’s glare he had seen their faces. At once he recognised their fear. Even though he was but one man stood before a hundred, it was they who were anxious, they who prayed that battle would not take place.
Cross smiled and brought the handle of his hammer back across his chest, clasping it now with both of his mighty hands. He twisted them slightly on the handle, feeling the slight burning sensation as the wood resisted. His grip felt good; comfortable. It was a comfort born through a near lifetimes use of the weapon.
It felt light in his hands. The balance was perfect, the hammer head selected specifically for his own person. He wielded it with the ease of a feather, but everyone on that mountain knew that it would strike like an anvil. One blow could cleave a mans skull open, and the shields they all held would offer scant shade from the brilliant blaze of his strikes.
Maybe that was why nobody moved. Maybe their fear gripped them such that they were unable to come any closer? Maybe it was the poor footing now offered by the slick rocks that kept them at bay? Either way, Cross was getting tired of their hesitancy.
The temptation was to unleash his battle cry and simply roar down the hill into their midst. But instead he stood firm on his ground. As mighty a warrior as he was, he knew that descending from his advantageous position and putting himself in the middle of a hundred men would be courting disaster. Maybe it was decisions like this that made him a mighty warrior? Not just brawn, but brains as well.
He rolled his hammer through is hands once more, eager to join battle. It was then that he heard the sound of a foot slipping to his right. Almost automatically he turned to his right and there -- but a few feet away -- was a pair of now horrified eyes starring right at him. The soldier had attempted to sneak up on his flank and had come so close, but Cross’s highly tuned instincts had just sprung the ambush.
Now the predator became the prey.
Cross leaped forward almost effortlessly. For a man of his size it was a surprising display of agility. He used his hammer more like a spear, thrusting the head forward in a violent shot that struck against his enemies shield. His opponent stumbled on the slick rocks, opening both arms for balance. The set up had been perfect and now Cross brought his back foot flying through for a tremendous kick.
The scream of terror was horrifying. The men watching on felt a new chill down their spines as they saw their comrade, their best warrior, tumbling backwards down the hill in a series of sickening crunches and cracks. The sound of one man vacating his bowels put some of those at the rear to flight.
Cross now turned back to face the main body of his foes. He held the Hammer high above his head in both hands and now treated his enemy to a massive war cry that seemed to shake the very mountain itself. As the scream tailed off, the sound of another set of bowels being vacated could be heard.
Sensing that his men were failing, the leader of the group now gave out his own war cry and began to charge up the hill. Some at the back of the group now took the chance to stumble on the rocks and then not get back up, instead turning and slithering off into the night.
But not Cross. He stood his ground firmly and prepared to resist the new threat. He had picked his spot with absolute soundness of tactical judgement. The rocks to his left were piled unevenly to create a miniature valley, perhaps what had once been a track up the hill. It would funnel any opponents from that side into a single file column.
To his right the rocky crop fell away sharply. While this had provided some cover for the skilled warrior attempting the sneak attack, it would now be easy to defend given Cross’s awareness and his dominant position. To his front he had taken the time to liberally remove a few rocks. Not many, just enough to provide some awkward footing that would claim a few ankles and force his opponents to bunch together.
It was into this frontal position that the leader of this rabble now plunged. With an admirable degree of deftness he danced around the obvious holes and came flying at Cross with a furious downward slash of his sword. Cross didn’t even move. He merely raised his hammer and used the shaft to brush aside the attack before his opponents shield slammed ineffectually against him. The footing Cross had chosen coupled with a perfectly timed bend of the knees allowed him to absorb the blow in a strong stance.
His opponent recoiled, his face a mixture of shock and fear. It was the peculiar sight that few men get to see; the face of a man who suspects his death is imminent. In this case the mans suspicion was well founded. Driving with his left hand Cross brought the butt of the Hammer up violently under his foes chin, driving the head back with such force that a distinct crack could be heard emanating from the top of the mans spine.
His limp body tumbled backwards onto the cold and unforgiving rock.
The death of their leader now sapped what little momentum the force had left. Some stared up at Cross, the rain bouncing off his armour with the same futility as all of their attacks so far.
Cross grinned, seeing the fear in his enemies eyes. He understood what few village politician’s did; that war was as much psychological as physical. He knew in that brief look at the remaining soldiers that their confidence was gone. Not a single man now left on that mountain genuinely believed they could defeat Cross, even if they themselves didn’t realise it yet. Cross allowed himself a little chuckle. Then he broke the deadlock.
He turned to his left where the first man had made it up the defile. He leaped forward, landing with his left foot in a perfectly balanced spot and with his hammer swinging down to deliver a seemingly unstoppable blow. The soldier facing him raised his shield and cowered away from the inevitable strike.
But Cross had checked his hammers momentum, a feint used to force his enemies hand. Instead he lashed out with his right boot, driving the mans shield back and up, causing the soldier to stumble and fall into the path of his allies behind him. This would buy Cross time while he turned his attention elsewhere.
That he did with no hesitation. Stepping to his right he saw a feeble attacker come forward, a half hearted attempt to take his life. It was punished swiftly and thoroughly. Again Cross skilfully used the base of his hammer -- this time flicking his opponents sword thrust up and away -- before stabbing at his opponents face. The strike served merely as another distraction, another quick feint to conceal his true purpose.
Cross now brought the head of his war hammer up in a high arc and then pulled it down, crashing with a sickening thud onto his opponents head. He saw blood spurt violently from the mans nose as he collapsed in a heap at Cross’s feet. But Cross had no time to ponder the morality of taking a mans life. Instead he stepped again to his right.
Another man stepped forward and Cross now slid slightly to the left, drawing his opponent slightly onto a new line of advance. The mans right foot came down but found no solid rock to support it. Instead it disappeared into one of the holes Cross had manufactured. The soldiers foot was suddenly caught with nowhere to go as his weight went tumbling forward. The sound of a shin snapping rang out across the mountain top, followed immediately by a harrowing scream.
Again Cross shuffled across to the right as one foe had now nearly reached the top. Seeing Cross blocking his way the warrior swung his sword in a horizontal slash aimed at catching Cross’s belly, but Cross lowered the hammer handle to absorb the blow. It’s thick oak was barely scratched.
With the finesse of an expert warrior Cross began to spin round, using his hammer handle to sweep the sword to one side. As he came full circle Cross launched a thrusting strike with the head of his hammer, striking the bridge of his enemies nose. The man stumbled back, dropping his sword in the process.
But this was not a night for mercy.
Instead Cross went into a second spin, shifting his grip down as he did so. The head of the hammer was now extended and travelling at great speed on the outside edge of the circle Cross was creating. It only stopped when it made a sudden connection with the side of the mans skull.
His body was thrown sideways, thudding limply into the rocks. The looks of shock and horror were even more widespread now. It was enough of an effort for most of the men present just to remain standing. Only those to Cross’s left who had not seen the latest carnage wreaked by the Norse warrior made any effort to come forward still. To them Cross now turned his attention.
He roared as he made a one man charge for the defile. Forgoing any strike with his hammer he instead used his shoulder as a ram, ploughing into the shield of the lead man of three. The soldier was thrown backwards, his sword slipping from his grasp. But this time Cross maintained the pressure, swinging his hammer backhanded at the next man who had no time to react.
The blow was accurate and firm, clubbing the mans head and sending him spilling over the lip of the defile and back down the mountain. The third man reeled back in mere horror, stumbling down onto the rocks. Rather than fight on, the man turned to flee. But Cross pounced, bringing his hammer over his own head and drawing it down in a fearsome hit, in the manner that one might drive home a fence post.
The third man screamed briefly as his spinal column was snapped in half. Cross did not linger though. He turned once more and dashed back to the central position on the hill, where two men had now braved to venture. It was foolish. Cross couldn’t understand why they didn’t take the hint and run, while they still had the chance.
His first attacker tried a sword thrust, but it was so belaboured and telegraphed that Cross merely jumped to the right, dodging the attack easily. He grabbed the top of the mans shield with his left hand and pulled forward, dragging the man off balance. Using the momentum of the pull he pressed onward, bearing down on the second man in a flash.
Again he favoured the approach of using his massive mass to barge his opponent backwards, causing the enemy to stumble and lose focus. Cross again went back to his spin move, generating a huge swirl with the hammer before it crashed into the side of the mans knee cap.
The leg folded inwards in a manner legs are not supposed to. Cross felt the man would look back on this moment and count himself lucky. His life, if not his knee, had been spared. Rather, Cross wanted the psychological effect. He wanted to leave another man screaming on the battlefield in his apparent death throws. Hopefully it would serve to encourage the others to make their retreat a little more hastily.
But Cross had a more immediate worry. Behind him he heard the sound of footsteps. The other solider on the hill top was lining up another clumsy attack. Cross waited though, baiting his opponent into making the attack with the promise of an easy kill. At the last second he stepped adroitly to the right and spun 180 degrees, using his hammer to brush aside the miserable excuse for a death blow.
To finish the job, Cross now brought up the butt of the handle and struck his opponent cleanly in the back of the head. The extra punch from such a strong man as Cross sent the assailant-turned-victim flying forward and plunging into two more of his allies. The three of them collapsed backwards in a heap, yelling and flailing as they disappeared down the hillside and into the cloak of darkness.
Cross sent them away with a victorious yell.
Then a seconds silence. The advancing forces had stopped dead. No armour rattled, no swords clanged on the rocks. Not even a breath. Then the air was filled once more by the wailing of the dying. And the enemy morale was gone.
They started by back tracking. They picked their way back down the hill, step by step, never taking their eyes off the man mountain, the killing machine that stood before them. Sensing the battle won, Cross began to charge down the hill and almost at once, what had been a calm and professional withdrawal descended into a chaotic scramble down the hill.
With the rain covered rocks slippery to the touch, many lost their footing and began a violent and uncontrolled tumble down the slope. Some threw down their swords and shields in order to lighten the load. One man turned to the steep side to Cross’s right and in panic jumped, throwing his fate into the hands of the Gods. But the Gods were on Cross’s side this night. The sound of two legs shattering and the accompanying scream of abject pain were like the victory song for this great battle.
But far from resting, Cross meant to apply the pressure and drive home his victory to make it complete. He roared loudly as he followed the swarm of bodies down the hill, dancing from rock to rock with the acquired agility and skill of a lifetime of fighting. Yet more stragglers slipped and fell as they desperately looked back over their shoulders.
Cross estimated that more men would die tonight simply running away, than those that actually fell under his hammer. But then Cross stopped dead in his tracks. From the dark emerged a figure, the moonlight glistening off his armour. One among these mere mortals seemed prepared to challenge him.
As this last bastion standing in the way of total victory stepped forward, Cross could see he was dressed head to toe in some curious red uniform, his face covered by a strange mask. On the mans chest he could see a bright gold symbol, a lightning bolt that echoed the moody weather.
The man spoke;
“I, Dante Holly, defender of the nubile, challenge you to a duel evil doer!!”
Cross smiled. One last easy picking to overcome and the night would be his….