Prologue;

Ayame lounged naked on her couch of silken pillows as her comely women-in-waiting saw to her every need. Her hair, the color of a starless night flowed loosely over her bare shoulders, a stark contrast to her pallid skin that shown like ivory in the chamber’s dim light. Her subjects called her the Dark Queen of Nidafjoll, the Queen of the Dark Mountains.
She ruled as Queen to the Dokkalfar, the elves of Nidd. Ayame, the Dark Queen was of not the elven race, she was the beautiful daughter of King Liekos and Queen Accalia of a island kingdom of changelings, the wolf- people of Marrok.

She was quite enthrall in the mirror of black volcanic glass that she held in her slender hand. The highly polished mirror did not reflect the image of the Dark Queen. Instead, it was a magical window that the Queen used to secretly spy on the surrounding kingdoms. Her eyes blazed with an unnatural light as she stared unblinking into the mirror.

“General Vlastimir___” She purred, never looking up from the mirror.

“Yes my Queen.” Responded a tall, black-haired warrior with eyes the color of a pitch well, stepping forward with his head bowed.

“General, see this girl?” Vlastimir nodded as he gazed into the mirror with Ayame. In the mirror was the vision of a young beauty riding in a heavily mountain forest. She was more beautiful than words could describe.

“She is the Locrian Queen, Sapphira___ she is on her way to the kingdom of Latveria, to be wedded to the Latverian King Zagorka.”

For the first time, Ayame placed he eyes on the tall, slender general, locking her eyes to his. “Bring her to me. Gather your Yowlumne wolf riders; kill them all, but the Locrian Queen.”

“As you command my queen, she will be yours.” Vlastimir stated, bowing low as he backed out of the chamber. A wicked smile crossed Ayame’s beautiful face as she watched the general exit the chamber.

“Bozkurtlar, come here.” Ayame called out. From the shadows stepped forth a large muscular man, a product of the union of a Marrok father and a Dokkalfar mother. Ayame knelt on her couch and greeted the man with open arms, drawing him against her naked body. “Love, do me a favor___” Ayame’s voice dripped with honey and venom, as she trailed kisses upon the large warrior’s body. “If Vlastimir fails in his mission___ kill him.”

“I will not fail you my Queen.” Bozkurtlar replied as he returns Ayame’s hot furious kisses. “I promise that the Locrian Queen will be yours.”
FINI


As night slipped into dawn, the sound of reveille echoed throughout the encampment. The Locrian General Priscus the son of Attalus walked amongst his men rousing them from their short night’s sleep. General Priscus had a very colorful history, he started as a Gothic slave who successfully fought in the gladiatorial fights in the great colosseums around the empire and earned his freedom from the Emperor in the imfamous Flavian Amphitheatre. Priscus volunteered his sword arm to the Greek army and fought in numerous battles as a mercenary. He earned hero status at the Battle of Mycale and the naval Battle of Salamis against King Xerxes’ forces. Priscus had the undying respect of all his men; he was not a soft-bellied, noble-born general who knew not of hardship, but a hardened warrior who was the first on the field of battle and always led from the front. Priscus ate the same food as his troops and slept on the same hard ground as his infantry. He accepted no special favors because of his status or rank and expected the same from his junior commanders.

Thorgil took notice of this and admired the general greatly. This large grim-faced warrior was a warrior leader superior to many that Thorgil had served under in his young career.

“Friend Thorgil,” Greeted Priscus as he walked up to the red-haired man-giant with his arm outstretch. “Did you even sleep last night my large friend?”

“I slept with both eyes open, general.” Answered Thorgil in jest, his face crinkling with deep lines as he gave the general a crooked smile that split his beard in two. “The Queen has been up for hours, her ladies are attending to her as we speak.”

“Stay close to her my friend, by this eve we will be well deep into the forest of Nidafjoll. There are tales that the lord of the underworld would not venture there.” Priscus’ tone became very grim as he spoke of his concerns. The smile was now replaced with a somber look. “Call upon your gods if need be man of Norge, but rely on your sword arm and wits when the time comes to defend the queen.” Priscus added when he saw Thorgil clench his amulet of Thorr’s hammer.

Thorgil nodded his large head in agreement. “The queen will be in good hands, you have my word.” The two warriors clasp arms in a warrior’s salute with hardy slaps to their muscular backs.

It took several hours for the encampment to be broken down as Priscus’ imperial infantry set the pace for the royal caravan. Queen Sapphira was encouraged to discard her queenly garb for the garb of a horseman in her royal guard. In her carriage, General Priscus place a comely slave girl dressed as the Locrian queen.

By mid afternoon, the caravan from Locris was well into the dense mountain forest of Nidafjoll. The massive trees and heavy underbrush pressed in on the men, forcing them to walk in a semi-staggered line. The going was made slower and more treacherous by the narrow, uneven path that hindered the laden wagons to a crawl.

Priscus sent out his scouts to reconnaissance the path ahead for a way through the forsaken forest of the Dark Queen. The longer they dwelled in the ancient forest the more the stouthearted warriors of Locrian seemed to lose their nerve. Rumors were soon spread that the Dark Queen’s phantom army of dark elves roamed the mountain forest, riding on the backs of large blue-black wolves. Seasoned veterans went amongst their men, with curses and harsh threats marshaled their men’s wits about them, and put an end to their foolish talk.

The hairs on Thorgil’s neck stood up when he saw the scout’s horses return without the riders. Strapped around the necks of the horses were the bloodless heads of the four scouts. Thorgil’s beard bristled as a long string of curses escaped from his lips.

Queen Sapphira looked at Thorgil wide-eyed, her face turning pale.
“Thorgil, what is the meaning of this?” Sapphira nervously asked her red-haired bodyguard.

“We are about to receive some unwanted visitors my queen.” Thorgil replied, looking about to his left and right. “Know you how to use a sword my lady?”

“Some what.” Was Sapphira’s reply as she accepted a sword from Thorgil. The Greek leaf-shaped, short blade sword was no more than a dagger in his large leathery hands.

The Bloodaxe felt more comfortable with the weight of his formidable battle-axe in his hands and his two feet on the firm ground.

General Priscus road up and down the caravan line, trying to draw the men into a defensive position. Wagons were quickly rounded up into the center of the defense as the draft horses and beast of burden were unfettered.

“War dogs of Hades___ we wear the red tunic of the Keres, to show our enemies the blood we have shed. Today we will make our stand here, and when we come face to face with the Dark Queens forces, we will bare our teeth and dig our feet in not giving up an inch to their advance. We will drench this ancient ground with their blood and send their spirits to the shadow lands___ today, the blood of the Dark Queens army will stream like a river at our feet. Do you doubt me not?” General Priscus’ voice echoed throughout the forest, and then was drowned out as the voices of hundreds raise their voices in cheer and curses.
Crashing through the underbrush, the unholy horde of Vlastimir’s wolf riders collided headlong into Priscus’ spearmen and mounted horsemen.

Vlastimir’s wolf riders hit Priscus’ right flank like a sledgehammer, collapsing the formation. The left formation was hit by a deadly hail of arrows, forcing the men to break formation. Discipline was quickly slipping from General Priscus’ grasp as he and his commanders tried to regain their defensive formation and marshal their troops into a discipline fighting force once more.
The once peaceful forest was a sundered with the sounds of men yelling orders, the screaming of men and beast dying. The air was thick with dust, and the smell of blood and death.

Vlastimir’s wolf riders poured out of the forest in force, trampling down the foot soldiers and mounted horsemen alike, threatening to crush Priscus’ ranks. In a matter of minutes, the Greek army of Locris was smothered by screaming, howling Dokkalfar warriors. Priscus and his warriors were in a bloody fight for their lives, the ground was so drenched with blood and gore from both armies, that it was impossible to keep ones footing.
Elsewhere, the battle had taken a peculiar turn. Thorgil the Bloodaxe was in the center of a whirlwind of red carnage, as dark elves and wolves alike piled high at his feet. He moved as if a man possessed as his gore-coated axe turned warriors into red ruins. The frenzied rage of the berserker had long over taken the red-haired giant as he caved in skulls and rib cages in a red haze madness. Blood and gore covered the large warrior from head to toe giving him a gruesome appearance.

Thorgil kept his back against a monolith standing stone. Crouching behind him was the Locrian Queen with her sword in hand. She made good use of her sword stabbing left and right at any who may have avoided the Bloodaxe’s deadly defense.

Soon it became apparent the dark elves were losing their nerve in attacking the red-haired giant with the enormous battle-axe. General Vlastimir in a rage whipped his troops into a frenzy for last final attack upon the red-haired giant. Thorgil was hard press to keep the Dokkalfar troops at arm’s length. Their blades and spears bit and tore at his flesh, opening many wounds. One warrior was able to get inside of Thorgil’s defenses and drive his blade into the red-haired warrior’s side.
It was natural instinct that made Thorgil reach out and grab the Dokkalfar warrior by the throat. Thorgil glared at the warrior through a red haze of pain, recognizing the warrior as that of the commander. With his large hands around the commander’s neck, Thorgil slowly lifted him off the ground, and then with a grunt, crushed his windpipe with a sickening crunch of cartilage and bone.
The sound of horns was blasting through the forest battle din. Thorgil noticed that he was no longer the center of the dark elves attention. They were fleeing as if the demons of hel were set upon them.

Riders on white steeds had entered the fray; the riders of Latveria were now giving chase cutting down the retreating dark elves. The men of Latveria were high elves, their beauty was more beautiful than most men have ever witnessed.

A sudden weakness over came Thorgil as he watched the slaughter. He slowly sank to the ground holding his side, Vlastimir’s sword still jutting from his side. Thorgil fell to his knees on the gore-splattered ground, his face now a pallid color as if all the blood has been drained from his face. He fell lifeless to one side into the arms of a crying Sapphira, who was screaming for help.

“Thorgil___ Thorgil don’t you die on me___ don’t you die on me.” Cried a tearful Sapphira. “Someone please help its Thorgil, he’s badly wounded.”

General Priscus came at a run, as did other warriors. It was quite a scene, Queen Sapphira cradling the man-giant in her arms and all around them; piled knee-high was the broken bodies of the dark elves and their wolves. Thorgil gave a good account of himself against the Dark Queen’s forces on that day.

“Man of Norge___ Thorgil___ Thorgil,” A blood-splattered Priscus yelled in the ears of the red-haired giant. “Don’t give these curs the satisfaction of traveling to the shadow land___ stay with us boy, hold on help is coming.”

Thorgil’s vision went black when he toppled into the arms of Sapphira. In the distance, he could hear the queen’s crying and screaming, the faint chatter of the warriors and General Priscus’ chiding him for giving up.

Several high elves had now gathered around making their way to Thorgil’s side. One was very tall and slender; his hair was as fine as spun gold. He introduce himself as General Amras Melwasul, the commander of the Latverian forces. The other two with him were his healers, Mahtan Seregon and Maeglin Sirfalas.

General Amras ordered all the troops back, saying they needed privacy and quietness to accomplish the saving of this fallen warrior. General Priscus ordered his men to search the dead and slit the throats of any dark elf that still held on to life.

Sapphira, refused to move or release Thorgil from her arms. Tears streamed down her dirty, bloodstained face as she watched the two high elves strip Thorgil of his gore-splattered garments. They laid their hands upon Thorgil’s chest and side and began to chant in a language that has been forgotten by most men.

Thorgil’s body was washed in a bright light that spread from the elves hands. The chanting became louder and louder as if it was not only the healers, but also all the high elves now chanting in unison. Thorgil’s body was totally engulf in a light as bright as that of the sun. Sapphira could no longer watch, she had to turn her head and protect her eyes with her hand.

“Queen Sapphira___ why are you crying?” It was Thorgil’s voice. He was now stirring with a renewed life in Sapphira’s arms. “The Allfod___ Odinn Bileyg the one-eyed says it is not my time. He says he has great plans for me before I can dine at his table.” Thorgil could feel his strength coursing through his body once more.

“My thanks to you Ljosalfar, people of the light.” Thorgil said with great gratitude to the High elves that had gathered around him. “I am indebted to you my friends__ ask and it will be yours.”

General Amras stepped forward taking Thorgil’s large hands in his.
“No my friend___ it is us who are indebted to you.” Amras replied with a smile. “You kept our king’s bride safe from the clutches of the Dark Queen.”

“How did you come about the knowledge that we were in dire need?” Priscus asked the Latverian commander.

“The birds told the trees, of the Dark Queen’s plan to have Sapphira for herself. The trees told the wind and in turn told my king, Zagorka.

An unexpected roar of laughter escaped from the red-haired man-giant that startled all who stood around.

“The gods have a funny way of playing with men’s lives.” Thorgil said still roaring with laughter.


Afterword;


In the mountain palace of Hazer-shual, Ayame the Dark Queen flew into a black rage as she watch her forces be routed by the Latverian forces. Her ladies-in-waiting ran from the chamber in terror as vile curses and threats spewed from her black lips.
“Bozkurtlar, I know you are there___ come here now!” She commanded to the dark figure that lurked in the shadows of the chamber.
“This warrior___ the one called Thorgil. I want his head___ bring me his head.” Ayame said. her voice was shaking with a rage.

Bozkurtlar did not attempt to approach the Dark Queen, but quickly backed out of the chamber. This was the first time he has ever failed the Dark Queen, and he knew the penalty for failure.

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