The Terror Of The Northlands


The city gates boomed as the battering ram struck.  The first two strikes were repelled, 
but the third tore the massive doors off their hinges and hurled them to the ground.  With 
a roar of triumph, the slavering hordes of darkness poured through the opening, their 
greed and bloodlust driving them onward.  "The human city is ours!  Its pitiful defenses 
were no match for our might!" howled a particularly ugly orc.

The defenders turned and ran, fleeing for the safety of the inner walls.  The monstrous 
army moved on unchecked, sweeping through the city like a raging river, destroying 
everything in their path.  Soon, very soon, the city in its entirety would fall, and the horde 
could slake its unrelenting bloodlust on the soft flesh of the cowering humans.

Suddenly, over the war cries a shriek of inhuman pain rang out.  Other death cries quickly 
followed, and all eyes turned to find the source.  The weak human warriors had fled; who 
dared slay their brethren?  Another orc fell, gurgling as blood ran out of his throat, 
revealing a handsome elven man clad in black aristocratic garb.  His green eyes gleamed 
with sadistic glee as his bastard sword struck again and again, each stroke delivering a 
fatal blow.

The horde roared with fearsome rage and charged, but the swordsman fought on, 
undaunted.  Every attack sent his way failed to touch him as he dodged and parried, and 
more monsters breathed their last as he spun and slashed, his black hair and cape whirling 
around him.  The creatures pressed on, trampling the dead and dying in their desire to 
slay the arrogant elf.  No single man could check the unstoppable might of the horde and 
live!

The swordsman laughed with berserk pleasure, as if reading their thoughts.  "Fools!  
Your great numbers mean nothing to me – in truth, they only make me stronger!"  The 
perfect morale of the monsters faltered as they realized it was true; the faster they pressed 
in, the faster he slew them.  The elf laughed again as he spun in a perfect circle, killing an 
entire ring of creatures surrounding him.  "Know before you die," he cried, "that you face 
Sergei von Zarovich, terror of the Northlands and a god of battle!  A goooooooooood!  
Ahahahahahaha—it burns!"

As suddenly as he appeared, the elf vanished without a trace.  The army paused and 
looked around fearfully, frantically searching for any sign of the terrible warrior.  A full 
quarter of their forces lay dead on the ground, never to taste human flesh again.  In the 
center of the ring of bodies stood a lone orc, who stared at his sword, shiny with fresh 
blood, with great surprise.  Slowly lowering his blade, he glanced around cautiously.  
"What in Gruumsh's name—"

"A god!"  The elf reappeared, apparently unharmed, and cut down the orc who had dared 
to strike him.  The monsters screamed in terror, fleeing for their lives.  They hurled aside 
weapons, helmets and armor as they ran, abandoning everything to lighten their burden 
and escape with greater speed.  A cheer rose up from the besieged city, and the gates 
swung open.  The defenders charged out and pursued the retreating monsters, harrying 
them for a short distance before returning to the city.

Although the citizens wished to reward their noble elven savior with a great victory feast, 
he had mysteriously vanished once again.  No doubt he was simply too modest to accept 
the praise and gratitude of the people he saved.  Time passed and the city eventually 
returned to its former glory.  However, the citizens never forgot that they owed their lives 
to the mysterious elven swordsman who single-handedly defeated the monstrous horde 
that once threatened them.  He became an integral part of the city's legends, and even 
now they have not forgotten the name Sergei von Zarovich.

----------

"Dad, are you still writing that cheap adventure novel?"

Sergei von Zarovich glanced up from his book and looked around, seeing his daughter 
Marissa standing in the doorway of his study.  With a humph, he turned back to the book.  
"It is NOT a cheap adventure novel, thank you very much.  It is a factual account of one 
of my many adventures."

Marissa walked up behind Sergei and read over his shoulder as he put the finishing 
touches on the passage.  "Sure reads more like a novel."

"That's to make it easier to read.  I certainly wouldn't want to read it if it sounded like a 
dry historical text."

Marissa raised an eyebrow.  "'Sergei von Zarovich, terror of the Northlands'?"

Sergei grinned sheepishly.  "Okay, I'll admit that no one's ever called me that before."

"How about 'a god of battle'?"

"Or that."

Smirking impishly, Marissa put her hands on her hips and looked down at her father.  "So 
you ARE writing a cheap adventure novel!"

Turning, Sergei tried to glare at her, but couldn't keep the amusement out of his eyes.  
"Hey!  It's called artistic license, you know.  Besides, most of it is true, except for a few 
embellishments."

"Ha!  I bet it was twenty orcs raiding some rural village, instead of the thousands you're 
talking about!"

"Actually, it was more like a couple hundred attacking a small city.  And I never said 
how big the army was.  If the audience wants thousands, they can have thousands."

"You must be slipping, old man, if you're feeling the need to exaggerate your exploits."

Sergei puffed out his chest.  "I am not old!  I'm only 231 years old!  Which, I might add, 
is quite young for an elf."

Marissa stuck out her tongue and hopped back out of reach.  "Nah, you're just an old 
man!"

"I dare you to come over here and say that!"

Laughing, Marissa, raced out of the room.  "Catch me if you can, old man!"

Leaping out of the chair, Sergei started after her.  Pausing at the door, he went back to his 
desk and closed the book.  There was work to be done...but it could wait.  Smiling, he 
charged out of the room.

"Eek!  Dad, boots of speed are NOT fair!"