Finwin's Last Will & Testament
The year's final "rerun" day. This is an
excerpt from my first published short story, which
represented the very first time I got paid to
write.
As they tarried, a monstrous phantom suddenly
appeared at the far end of the corridor and began
to approach the three sojourners. Clothed in a
rusty suit of plate armor, it held a tarnished,
decrepit sword in its bony hands. The visor of the
helmet stood open, revealing a rotting,
maggot-eaten face. From ragged lips, it released a
spine-chilling shriek of pure evil.
Tahshwin soundlessly screamed and bolted out
into the wide, moonlit courtyard. Dorwin, with a
desperate yell, followed him. Instantly, a myriad
of skeletal, decomposing hands extended themselves
from the cold earth and seized hold of Tahshwin's
legs. The old dwarf fell to the ground, victim to
the malicious appendages, and was slowly being
dragged beneath the topsoil. Dorwin, in fear of
being caught himself, extricated himself from the
hands assaulting him and returned to the open
doorway. He looked back in time to see his uncle's
jutting arm sink beneath the earth.
Meanwhile, the demoniacal phantom had joined
battle with Gorbel. The man's sword strokes seemed
to pass right through the fiendish ghoul's form. He
was constantly forced to avoid the demon's weapon
by leaping and dodging from side to side. It would
not be long before Gorbel would be stricken,
fighting in such a manner. On a sudden impulse, the
warrior again drew out his gilt cross. This time,
he touched the razor-sharp edge of his weapon to
it. Instantly, the entire blade became white with
hot fire. With one quick motion, Gorbel cleft the
demon's figure in twain. In a split second, it was
consumed by the holy fire and was gone. Exhausted
and soaked with sweat, the man collapsed against
the wall.
After a moment, Dorwin suggested, "Gorbel, let
us get out of here. I have a few flasks of holy
water in my pouch. Perchance if we sprinkle them on
ourselves the evil hands in the courtyard will not
touch us."
Before Gorbel could reply, the stern figure of
Boris appeared, coming down the stairs. He
approached them and spoke.
"My dear guests, what has happened? I was
awakened by the sound of many heart-rending
screams. Upon investigating I found all my visitors
brutally murdered! What has transpired here,
gentlemen?!"
Dorwin began relating the grisly occurrences of
the night to the grim-faced host. When he mentioned
Gorbel's use of his cross, the man removed it once
again from inside his shirt to show the placid
host. At the sight of the blessed device, Boris'
entire visage appeared as if it had been splashed
with scalding-hot water. His body went into
frenzied spasms and a bizarre metamorphosis began.
His teeth became the dagger-like fangs of a canine.
His fingernails grew to a dreadful length and
became razor-sharp. Short black hairs sprouted over
the entire surface of his body. His high cheekbones
and nose grew outward, causing his face to sink
inward. Finally, he enlarged in size and stature
until he towered over the two terrified onlookers.
As he spoke, his voice creaked like rusty coffin
hinges, and his mouth expelled the foul stench of
the grave.
"Rash intruders! You should never have come! But
you shall never leave, at least not alive!" The
creature cackled. "Old Finwin was a fool, thinking
he could defeat me! You, too, are fools! For I am
Staarshale the Invincible!" With a gloating laugh,
he sprang at Gorbel.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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