The Sword Of Oblivion: It's War

By Grim

Now that Rathall the traitorous sorcerer and the warlord Strangaurd have stolen The Sword of Oblivion from the dwarfs, they’re preparing the takeover of Gryphon Island and every race upon it.

But the sword wasn’t the only thing to be stolen; so was Sacul, who is now a prisoner within castle Attin. But all is not lost, as Torms heads out with a small group to rescue him. Leaving Tennant in charge, who now has the pleasure of telling king Crackzull that the sword is missing. Which isn’t easy when he’s just turned up to the makeshift fort with what looks like the entire dwarfen race.

King Crackzull has even emptied the prison cells of the most despicable dwarfs imaginable, who go by the name of ‘The Band of Undesirables’, much to horror of Tennant, as he was the one who had locked them away in the first place!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Grim
• Release date: Nov 16, 2018
• ISBN: 9781912919109

Grim

Where do we start?The only text written about Grim is in ancient books.It is written that his father was a notorious dwarfen warrior and his mother a Viking Shieldmaiden descended from the gods. It is also written that Grim was born on the battlefield when his mother (who was heavily pregnant at the time) slew the mighty dragon Oulah, and as the dragon took his last breath, Grim took his first.However, it has also been written that Grim wrote the ancient books in the first place!

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Copyright © 2018 by Grim

Paperback ISBN 13: 978-1-912919-08-6

Hardback ISBN 13: 978-1-912919-09-3

.epub eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-912919-10-9

.mobi eBook ISBN 13: 978-1-912919-11-6

Conditions of sale. This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the author’s prior consent in any form, binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition including this condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from both the publisher and author, the copyright owner.

Grim Books asserts the moral and legal rights to be identified as the author of this work.

This novel ‘The Sword of Oblivion Book Three - It’s War’ is a children’s adventure story. The author wishes to stress that the story is entirely a work of fiction and purely for entertainment. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination and the views and opinions expressed in this book are expressed by the characters and are therefore not those of the author himself. Any resemblance to actual persons, whether living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Published by Grim Books

Printed in the United Kingdom

Contents

The Sword of Oblivion

Book Three

Troubling times lay ahead upon Gryphon Island. Especially for a small dwarfen expedition led by Torms, to mine a rare mineral called Amberinth from an old forgotten mine within the Brocken Mountains. However, the mine had turned out to be a tomb and last resting place of the once Great Warlord Rancore. Laid within his coffin was The Sword of Oblivion a magical and mythical sword with immense power. But the dwarfs now faced an even bigger problem, they now found themselves held up within the mountain with no sword and nowhere to go. With the elves descending upon the mountain in greater numbers, to lay claim to the sword for themselves.

There only hope was with the Captain of The Blood Born Guards who had gone back to Ironclad to raise an army. Which is now heading towards the tomb lead by King Crackzull himself.

But what either race didn’t know was, that the sword had actually been stolen by the renegade sorcerer Rathall aided by warlord Strangaurd, and a small raiding party. Who had surprised Torms and his fellow dwarfs in the tomb, and as quickly as they had appeared, they had disappeared again from whence they came. Taking the sword and accidently taken Sacul along with it.

A chilling and morbid atmosphere now fell over the tomb, as Torms sat with his head in his hands, his whole body was tired. Since Sacul’s disappearance, he blamed himself. He had searched the tomb from top to bottom for him; for some kind of sign of where he might be, or where he had gone.

Whilst he had been frantically ransacking the tomb, he had been joined by the others. There wasn’t a single statue or corner that wasn’t checked; at least twice. But Torms had never stopped or let up, he knew Sacul was alive. He could feel it, and so did the twins, who had grown quite attached to Sacul. They took his disappearance just as badly as Torms did, and so did Sinat and Nakie. Who, upon hearing the sound of thunder come echoing down the tunnel, followed by war cries. Knew something was amiss and had run full pelt down the tunnel. Taking ten guards with them for back up, leaving Packrell in charge.

They were now all stood and sat around the main entrance on the steps that lead into the tomb. By the side of Torms was Nakie was just staring into space, trying to hold down his rage. Whilst Sinat was examining one of the helmets he’d pulled off one of the fallen warriors.

I just don’t understand why the sword vanished with them if it’s not affected by magic, spoke Torms out loud as he sat on the steps.

I do, said Odall looking up from his book. "The answer was on the final wall text I’d just been piecing together.

Apparently, the sword has a weakness. It will go anywhere the holder goes. That’s why Rancore had an Amberinth suit made to protect him."

Here, you’re the expert, said Sinat, tossing the helmet he’d been looking at, up into the air towards Tennant. Who just about caught it, as it fumbled around in his hands nearly knocking him off his feet. Who does this belong to? asked Sinat in a very stern voice.

Tennant lifted the visor and saw that the previous owner’s head was still inside. He let out a short shriek, and was just about to snap back a sarcastic answer. Which was, ‘It belonged to him.’ But given the present mood in the room, he thought about Rule 89 in Phobic’s rulebook, which was:

Rule 89: Wherever possible be diplomatic.

So, he decided the diplomatic approach was called for, which would either save him picking his teeth up off the floor, or rubbing his behind. Which was still sore from the last time Sinat had kicked it.

You must recognise the design, there can’t be many warlords running around with beasts heads sculpted onto their helmets. I presume these are warlords, said Sinat. He paused briefly as he looked over towards the dead warriors upon the floor, before continuing. And seeing as there are four main warlords, I’d like a word with the one that these lot belonged to.

Tennant closed the visor to the helmet and tried to dismiss the look from the fallen warriors face. It was a cross between a war cry and a look of ‘I should have ducked’ sort of face.

Huh-hum, yes, they are, said Tennant who was trying his hardest to help. He could sense the strong feeling of loss that had now befallen his fellow dwarfs. Even though he was sometimes the butt of their jokes. Which he knew was mainly due to his own actions. He felt himself for the first time in his life actually missing someone, and that broke Rule 24 in Phobic’s rulebook, which stated quite clearly:

Rule 24: Don’t get attached to anyone but yourself.

But Tennant didn’t really care, he had already nearly broken every rule in Phobic’s rulebook, since he had started out on the expedition. A book he used to live every second, every minute, every hour of the day by. But where had it got him? A life of meaningless tasks, ridicule and loneliness. People were always creeping up to him, with false smiles and words, just because they wanted something or another.

But not Torms and the others, they had taken him for who he was, right from the start. They’d even bought him a book, which he thought was a trap. That’s how sad, he thought, he really was. But now, for the first time in his life he felt a sense of duty, honour. Not in advisor’s role, but as a friend, and as he turned the helmet over in his hands he nodded to himself.

Yes, he muttered, then paused for a moment. Just checking it one last time just to make sure. Because if he got it wrong, some unlucky warlord somewhere would be sitting in his castle enjoying life to the full, relaxing. Then all of a sudden, he’d be faced by Sinat and his clan. With Sinat wanting to ‘have a word with him’ – and by the way Sinat was now looking, they’d be pretty short words at that.

Yes, I’m certain. This helmet and the others on the rest of the bodies belong to the Warlord Strangaurd, of the First Province. His warriors wear such designs to scare their enemies in the midst of battle. Tennant looked over towards all the slain warriors, that lay scattered all around the coffin. But I don’t think they had the desired effect this time, and they didn’t take into consideration one major factor upon being transported into the tomb.

What was that butted in Sinat.

That they might encounter the twins, concluded Tennant.

At the mention of their name, the twins lifted their bowed heads and looked up and over at Tennant. They looked sorry for themselves, as if they had been drained. They had taken the loss of Sacul very badly, and also blamed themselves for not looking after him, and felt ashamed.

Well then, said Sinat, pulling himself up to his full height. If Sacul is still alive, as you explained earlier Odall. Sinat looked towards Odall, who had filled him in earlier about the events leading up to Sacul’s disappearance. Then about how Sacul had probably been taken by accident, when the sword had made contact with him just before he disappeared.

Then we can only guess he’s back in the First Province with this Strangaurd, soon-to-be-a-deceased warlord. So, the quicker we get going, the quicker we get him back. Now let’s go and show this warlord who he’s really picked a fight with. NOW WHOS’S WITH ME? shouted Sinat, as he momentarily took over his old role as leader and protector.

His speech had uplifted the solemn mood of the small group. Especially the twins as their eyes now had a spark of hope and retribution burning within. But before he could get the cheers of support from his fellow dwarfs, and even one from Tennant. Who was just about to raise his skinny up arm within his oversized robe, as he eyed up one of the fallen warrior’s daggers. Which was plenty big enough for him to act as a sword. There came a loud Sssshhhh, as Ganga held up his arm.

Ganga was in the centre of the tomb by the coffin and was looking up at the ceiling. Next to him were Ripper, Sniffer and Picker who were also staring upwards, especially Sniffer. Who was on his back laying down with his huge magnified eye trained upon the ceiling. He’d been watching it all night and all morning, scribbling things down in his notebook. But never once did he take his eye off the ceiling, and he’d only blinked twice during all that time, and when he did he’d cursed under his breath just in case he missed something.

The others looked up, at first they didn’t see anything. Then there was a slight grinding noise, and small particles of dust and rubble fell down from the ceiling. As the others traced the origin, their eyes fell upon a network of cracks that ran and spread out through its entire length. Sniffer raised his hand with the notebook. Ganga took it and shook his head. Then turning his gaze towards the others on the steps he very slowly, and very quietly walked towards them.

I think, we have a bit of a problem, he whispered, just loud enough for them to hear. Torms stood up to listen, as Ganga quietly continued.

When the twins went berserk, they managed to dislodge the ceiling, said Ganga, even quieter so the twins couldn’t hear. As they were now standing by the doors with the other ten guards, Sinat and Nakie had brought with them; just out of whisper’s reach.

What, when they did their deafening berserk cry? asked Torms, as he recalled seeing bits of dust fall from the ceiling.

Well, that may have started it. But what probably didn’t help was when Bash’m swung his Double-handed War hammer in berserk mode clean through, not one, but two, of the supporting pillars, reducing them to rubble, added Ganga.

All at once everyone looked over towards the coffin in the centre of the room. To where the four giant statues had once stood, that acted as pillars supporting the tomb’s roof. In all their confusion and worries, they hadn’t realised that two of them were now missing.

Torms could even remember looking around one of the huge rock heads that lay in pieces on the floor. But he had been that engrossed in looking for Sacul, he hadn’t given it any thought. He looked back up towards the ceiling, then back at Ganga.

What now? he whispered.

Well, according to Sniffer’s notes and the size of the cracks. They seem to be getting half an inch thicker every three hours, two minutes and twenty-four seconds, but he’s only estimating here, so don’t quote me on that, said Ganga. He could be out by a second or two.

Tennant, who had been listening very closely, went to say something sarcastic about how on earth could they quote him when he was the Chief Ganga in charge, and expert on all matters to do with mining and mountains. Who just happened to be standing in the middle of one. Which had now decided to spring a little surprise on them. What was there to quote? Tennant knew they had to get out of there, and fast. Even the twins would probably be able to work that one out, he thought. But he held his tongue, as Ganga looked like he was trying to do some more maths in his head.

Whilst he was doing that Tennant slowly and quietly moved unnoticed towards the doors, as he was exercising Rule 77 in Phobic’s rulebook, which states:

Rule 70: If your just about to be trapped, buried alive, or imprisoned. Do what you do best, stay in the shadows and vanish.

We have about one hour, I’d say, to get all that we need and get out before the crack gets too big and the ceiling comes down. So, I suggest we get all our stuff and leave.

But what about all the artefacts and scriptures? asked Torms worryingly.

Don’t worry, I’ve got most of them interpreted in here, said Odall quietly as he softly patted the leather book that was in a leather holdall flung over his shoulder.

And if we shut the doors behind us as we leave, they should act as a sort of barrier, holding up the ceiling in the tunnel. That should stop a ripple effect, said Ganga.

Ripple effect? asked Torms.

Yes, it’s what you get if things aren’t supported properly. It will just continue until it can’t go any further if there’s nothing to stop it, it just carries on. If the doors are shut, once the ceiling does collapse, we can always come back and reopen the doors. Me and my team could have that rubble out of here and a new ceiling up and supported in… oh… let’s say ninety days, said Ganga, rubbing his chin.

There was another scribbling sound and a rustle of paper, as Sniffer’s hand shot up again. Ganga quickly walked back over to sniffer and took the paper. Then as quickly and as quietly as he could, made his way back over towards Torms. Ganga held up the piece of paper for inspection.

Make that ninety-one and a half, confirmed Ganga. Giving Sniffer a nod, but Sniffer didn’t see it or acknowledge it. He was still staring at the ceiling, even when he had written the note he hadn’t taken his huge magnified eye of it.

Upon seeing Ganga standing there with a piece of paper, giving estimates Torms nearly burst out laughing. Forgetting the seriousness of the situation, and momentarily about Sacul. As Ganga reminded him of the travellers that appeared from time to time, knocking on their door, asking if there were any odd jobs that needed doing. Or just by chance they had been passing and noticed that a tile on the roof looked crocked. And if it wasn’t fixed, could end up bringing the whole roof down next time it snowed – and as luck would have it. He just happened to be a roofer who specialised in such cases, and he’d do it as a favour for nothing. But after he’d conned his way onto the roof, and stamped around a bit. He would come down shaking his head, stating it was worse than he thought. The whole roof needing replacing and so did the wooden supports as well, as they were damp and had gone rotten.

Then he’d tell you to shut your front door to support to the roof, and he’d be straight back with his mates. Who just happened to be wood replacement specialists, and as luck would have it, were just around the corner doing another job. All you’d have to do was pay for the materials and give them a drink when they’d finished. Which wasn’t normally a drink, it was their way of saying a good earner; gold coins, and lots of them. And if you didn’t pay you’d normally find out to your horror that their other friends. Normally around twenty, just happened to be in the area as well.

Torms used to get at least one traveller a month trying it on, with stories ranging from. That they’d noticed woodworm, to a nest of birds up on the roof that needed removing, to Torms favourite, which was ‘Heavy Rain.’ Which had never seen before within the Ferral mountains, it was four times heavier than normal rain, and would rip right through any normal roof within seconds.

One day, Torms let a so-called ‘specialist roofer’ up onto his roof, to set a loose tile. Just for his own amusement, to see how far it went. After the dwarf returned from the roof, shaking his head, he shot off and returned with a wagon full of tiles and freshly treated moss. Which he claimed had been mixed with a revolutionary new mixture of chemicals. Which now made the moss totally waterproof and fireproof, and that after they retiled the whole roof they had to apply the moss. Accompanying him were his three pals. Who had arrived on another cart, laden with freshly cut wooden beams, as the roof had apparently got woodworm. They then spent the next five days taking off the old roof and laying down the new.

Just as they had finished, Sinat, Nakie and Sacul appeared from a short hunting expedition. Out of the small wooded area that surrounded their dwelling. When the so-called specialist roofer had handed over a written bill just for all the materials, and on doing so asked for a drink as well, followed by a dramatic wink. Torms had handed back the bill, with some advice. Which was, ‘get running’ as he set Nakie on them. You could hear the screams for miles around. As Nakie chased them, frothing at the mouth, not from anger, but from a stick of beef he was chewing. Nakie gave up after a mile and returned home, but the roofers carried on for at least another two just to make sure.

Torms was actually quite impressed with the quality of the work they had done, and he’d come out on top. With a brand-new roof, two mules and two carts which the roofers never came back for.

That was the last time that anyone ever called again. But it wasn’t because Torms had taught the travellers a lesson far from it. They were just too scared to go near their dwelling. Because a rumour had spread around the inner circle of travellers about four genuine dwarfen craftsmen who were on their way to a specialist roofer convention. When one of them had spotted a small dwelling in urgent need of repair, and out of the goodness of their hearts they repaired it. In the end it had taken them so long they missed their annual convention. Because being good craftsmen, they stayed until the job was done. They had also stuck to their word as well, only asking for the money to replace the materials they had used.

Also, on completion, one of them had asked for a drink, which in their language was only a drink. As they had worked hard that day under the beating sun, to get the job finished. And while doing so, the one asking had felt a piece of moss in his eye, and gave it a tight wink to get it out. Only to find to this horror, that the dwarf who had been sitting in a chair each day watching them. With a mug of ale in one hand and a pipe in the other, with his feet up and a huge smile upon his face. Set a mad foaming half-animal, half-dwarf on them which had chased them for about a mile until it gave up.

The craftsmen finally ran into a pair of other roof specialists who just happened to be in the area, but this time they were the travelling type. Who had sat them down, and after they had been given a drink to calm their nerves. They told the travellers of their ordeal, they had just been put through.

After the travellers had sat there for an hour, listening to the craftsmen. Who had just wasted five days mending a dwelling, missed the convention, lost their two carts and mules. Plus lost their entire new stock of treated moss, which was to be the key spectacular at that year’s show, and now faced at least a hundred mile walk home. The travellers had got up, spat their chewing weed out onto the floor, and the biggest one said. ‘It’s not your lucky day is it?’ just before he robbed them.

Leaving the now very nervous craftsmen in their long-johns at the side of the road, barefooted. They then realised after a couple of steps, trips, and hobbles, as they trod on the small stones on the track. That the one hundred miles they had just been moaning about earlier would have been a doddle with boots on. The honest craftsmen never did anyone any favours ever again, and apparently all took early retirement and lived on their savings high up in the mountains, at a small retreat called The Horris. Where the landlady, upon hearing their version of the tragic story as she served them their breakfast, made a concerned comment. ‘My boys live somewhere down there. I do hope they’re okay,’ and stuck a note on the kitchen cupboard, to remind her to write and let them know of the possible danger.

After the travellers retold the story, from campsite to campsite, it changed ever so slightly. The final version was about a mad smiling dwarf who enslaved anyone who went near his dwelling. And when you were no more use to him, he’d turn you into a wild beast, foaming at the mouth, half-animal, half-dwarf to protect his dwelling.

So, in the end, Torms did put an end to the unwanted attentions of the travellers. As they steered well clear of his dwelling, and Torms took a place in the traveller’s folklore, as ‘Old Smiley.’ Which was told around many a camp fire, on a dark and stormy evening.

Torms got a weird look off Ganga, who wanted to be let in on the joke, and wondered why Torms was smirking at him. With a blank expression on his face of someone who had just gone off into a world of his own, for a few seconds.

But before he could ask him, there was a strange ‘CLUNK’ sound, then another and another. That echoed out around the tomb, as it did everyone again stared up to the ceiling. All apart from Tennant, who didn’t need to as he knew what the sound was and where it was coming from, as he was the one who had caused it.

Tennant, who had just completed Rule 70 and was now onto Rule 44 in Phobic’s rulebook, which was:

Rule 44: At the first sign of trouble, get out.

Had been doing just that, however as he was sneaking up the steps, his oversized robe had brushed up against one of the giant ornamental vases that sat midway up. After rocking from side to side a few times, it had decided to go with gravity. It didn’t break as it toppled, as it was made out of gold, and was now bouncing down the steps, gathering quite some speed. It cleared the bottom step with one final big bounce. Then continued along the tomb floor off towards one of the corners, and this corner in particular. Just happened to have a rather large collection of highly decorated golden suits of armour in it; all in perfect rows of ten.

By now the others realising it wasn’t the ceiling making the noise but something else. Turned their gaze from the ceiling and they were now all watching the travels of the golden vase with great interest. Right up to the moment of impact, as it hit the first suit of armour. Which in turn knocked over the one next to it. With the final one ending with an almighty ‘THUD’ as it hit the tomb wall. Followed by a series of other thuds, clanks and clunks, as the rest of suits toppled and went crashing down onto the floor of the tomb.

Once more, everyone gazed at the ceiling and held their breaths, no one dared breath. The cracks still remained the same size and didn’t look like they had grown. Then everyone’s gaze turned towards where the vase had toppled from, and as they did, their gaze took them to a rather nervous-looking Tennant.

Oops, sorry, was all he could say. Then, as he gave the ceiling a quick glance, he made a brief statement. No harm done.

But Tennant spoke too soon. It wasn’t the fact that the ceiling was falling down. It was the fact Sniffer was running full pelt from where he had been laying. Followed by Ripper and Picker, as he ran past the others. He gave them a slightly uneasy feeling that they should be doing the same. They didn’t need any more encouragement to do so. But they got it anyway as a cracking sound sprang out around the tomb. Aa a crack appeared in the ceiling the size of a fist, and it wasn’t stopping there, as it continued to grow at some speed.

Tennant gathered up his long robe in his hands and started to run, as the rest of the party overtook him following Sniffer’s lead, as they all ran out past the huge Amberinth doors and into the tunnel. Torms had just cleared the entrance and was running full pelt down the tunnel when he suddenly stopped, as if he had forgotten something.

WHAT ABOUT THE DOORS? called out Torms.

THE DOORS! shouted Ganga, relaying the message up the tunnel towards Sniffer and the others. They all stopped, and just as they were about to run back and help shut the doors. Torms’s face turned to horror, as he now saw and experienced first-hand what a ripple effect looked like. A small crack appeared in the ceiling, above the opened doors, and was very slowly making its way over his head and down the tunnel.

TOO LATE, RUN! came the cry from Ganga, as everyone took to their feet once again and headed wildly off down the