“Why kill us?” Ehomba wondered aloud. “Why destroy this simple town?”
The head of the hammer lowered slightly, hovering. “I am a Berserker, and this is what Berserkers do.” White teeth showed unpleasantly. “I am happy to be a Berserker. I like to destroy, and mangle, and exterminate. If I am fortunate, before I expire I will be able to eradicate every town and village in the southern part of the Curridgians.” With his free hand he wiped his massive brow. “Annihilation, it is hard work.”
“Hoy, it stops here!” Sneering, Simna gestured at his tall, laconic companion. “This is Etjole Ehomba of the Naumkib. Master of magic and all the necromantic arts, conjurer supreme, wizard of wizards, defender of the enfeebled and all who are preyed upon by bullies and ruffians!”
“I am not a bully,” the Berserker Khorixas countered stiffly. “I am a professional.” He squinted down at the two men. “And he doesn’t look like much to me.”
“Leave now.” Simna took a challenging step forward. “Depart, flee, run away, before you are reduced to oblivion or slaughtered where you stand!”
“I’ll take my chances,” the Berserker Khorixas declared confidently, “but first I will make a paste of your bones to spread upon my bread for tomorrow morning’s breakfast.”
Simna stood his ground—making certain it was proximate to Ehomba’s. As the stern-faced herdsman unsheathed the sky-metal sword and prepared to defend the two of them, the Berserker could be seen fumbling with the head of the majestic mallet. The coarse cord that secured the protective leather cover was untied and the tough brown casing removed. Exposed to the clear mountain air, the silver-gray hammerhead gleamed metallically. Extensive crystalline striations caught the sunlight and held it. The swordsman’s jaw dropped.