The Visitors

Olaf, Wielder of the Firesword, Greatknight of the Third Battalion, Defender of the Northwind Bulwark, and General of the armies of the great vanguard city Normorr, stood facing the scarred legion of the crag walkers as they crested the last deep ridge before the tremendous stone wall on which he stood. He raised his right arm, and a thousand archers nocked their arrows, their eyes enchanted by the Dark Coterie of Cloaked Witherers nestled on the ground behind them, deep in whispering concentration. The air was rank with the smell of burning pitch, and with a sharp cry his Half-harpy Lieutenant Merelda signalled the ignition of the arrows. A column of burning light raced across the parapet. Olaf’s right arm fell, and the fiery arrows descended shrieking upon the advancing horde.

Olaf awoke in a gully by a brown, blood soaked stream. He raised his head despite the agony in his muscles, and looked up over the side of the ditch. The plain beside him was a gory battlefield of mangled corpses, skin-laden bonfires, and acrid death. Thousands of bodies lay dead, burned, or eviscerated, and he knew by the smell that victory was his. The crag walkers despised fire, and smothered it with the dangling open flesh of their stomach walls. They existed to extinguish all flame, and it was no small irony that only with an excess of fire could they be killed.

He stood, teeth clenched in pain, and yanked out a broken sword tip from his lower back. His armour was shattered in several places, and he had lost his sword in the final moments before losing consciousness. He remembered only charging into the din of combat, to take down the writhing mass of boiling flesh that slithered amidst the chaos, which gave birth to new minions from the absorbed matter of his fallen soldiers. He had to kill it, or they would be overrun – and so he plunged his sword straight into its heart, and was devoured.

He climbed up over the side of the ditch and took in the sight before him. He could not see many survivors. If they had won, it had come at a great cost. He would have to contact the South Imperium for reinforce-

And then he saw, rooting among a mound of dead soldiers, something black and shiny. He reached for his sword instinctively, then cursed its absence. He stooped and grabbed a longsword left by one of the slain, and approached the metallic creature cautiously. As he drew closer he saw it more clearly, illuminated by the flickering light of a nearby bonfire. It was about sex feet tall, a foot across, and cylindrical, with six short legs sticking out at sharp angles near the base. It looked like a great metal worm, standing upright, with sections connected by ribbed joints that stretched and contracted as it moved. Two flat metallic arms, with exposed pistons, whirred and spun from pivots attached to its middle segment. A red orb in the centre of its uppermost section rotated and pivoted and clicked, as if studying the surroundings intently.

“By Grimfang the Unmerciful, what in the Yawning Gorge are you!” Olaf yelled some ten feet away from the thing, abandoning all guile. He raised his sword and prepared himself for battle. The machine turned to face him, and cocked what might be called its neck, almost in a gesture of curiosity. Its feet clacked against the stony ground. It whirred and clicked and beeped, and took a few rapid steps in his direction. “Stay back, demon!” shouted Olaf, but held his ground.

Out of the sky came the roaring sound of flame, like a dragon’s breath. Olaf looked up and saw another of the creatures approaching rapidly from above, two thin streams of blue fire emerging from its back. He cursed and crouched down defensively. The machine landed next to his twin, and stared at Olaf with the same unassailable curiosity. “What… are… you?” Olaf murmured, confused beyond measure.

The two creatures clicked and clacked and glanced back and forth from Olaf to each other. They pointed at Olaf, and their torsos began to jerk up and down rapidly. A quick, repetitive zapping noise sounded from both of them, interspersed with more clacking. The one on the left began to slap its metal abdomen with one hand, while the other clucked and beeped and twisted its head back and forth. Olaf stared at them, his mouth agape and his knuckles white around the handle of his sword.

Another of the creatures appeared about fourty metres in the distance, atop a pile of bodies. It issued a loud, repeating beep that caught the attention of the two nearer creatures. It began to wave at them, and they nodded to each other. Looking back at Olaf, their eyes extended from their sockets with a tiny whirr, and suddenly a brilliant light blinded the warrior. He dropped his sword and fell to his knees, convinced they had cast some dark magic upon him. In a moment his vision cleared, and in the distance he could just see the three beings climbing up the ramp of a massive hovering ship. Once they had boarded, the ramp lifted and sealed itself into the wall of the vessel; it turned, and with a sudden burst of speed disappeared into the sky.