The Drakki terrified men. They did not fight like men. The bony, toothy monsters swarmed. Even highly skilled swordsmen found little value in fine swordplay and strong armor against an enemy that accepted death by hundreds merely to pin their foes under the pile of dead. In desperation, High Councillor Tempe spent the last of his treasury on a final hope. That hope was now outside the city gates as the Drakki Horde approached in a monstrous, sickly wave. Seven thousand tall men, perched atop a small hill near the beach, their shallow-draft longboats resting just offshore. Massive northerners, dressed in hide armor, nothing more than a long knife in each hand. Uncounted thousands of Drakki perished in their mad rush upon the tall men, impaled in the vast stake fields or the incendiary pits, or trampled under by their own. Yet the horde did not slow. The Drakki swarmed the hill. But they were met not with the armor-laden troops they found so easy to destroy. They were met with pure fury, from killers who could slice apart a dozen Drakki in seconds. And as the Drakki died, the northerners pushed up through the fallen and raged at the enemy atop piles of dead? |
