Mark of the Finder

…The staff trembling slightly in his grasp as the wizard summoned his magic. Locke could sense its coils moving insidiously throughout the chamber, finding and closing about each warrior of the troll clan. As Clan Leader, the honor of incurring the wizard’s wrath would fall to him. He would speak for the clan, and draw closer. Then, when the walking corpse was engaged in his response, the chieftain would swing his hammer with all the speed and strength he possessed. He would strike and strike until the sorcerer was dead. He would crush the head of the demon-man as he would destroy a venomous serpent in their midst. And though it would cost his life, he would save his people. He took two short paces, the hammer held loosely in his hand to be whipped up and swung in a low arc. A few steps more and the demon-man would be unable to evade the blow. But as Locke continued to speak, the words seem to dim in the chieftain’s ears. And as he neared striking range, he questioned what he’d planned and so desperately wished to perform. Doubt taunted him and he felt his resolve slacken like air released from a bellows. Contemptuous voices, voices he did not recognize, jeered at him. They called his plan rudimentary, and insultingly foolish in the face of an all-powerful wizard. They questioned if success was even possible, if his hammer could kill the monster that had left a trail of dead in his trek to their mountain. Look at him, oh Chieftain! A strange voice mocked. He does not fear to walk alone in your midst. Are you so mighty that you can bring him low? Can you accomplish with your hammer wrought of iron what the removal his flesh could not achieve? The Troll stopped, swaying on his feet. Around him, the assembled warriors gazed with blank unseeing expressions, already overcome. The elder fell to his knees, lowering his head in fealty as the hammer fell from his grasp. The heavy weapon clanged on the stone floor, ringing like a bell. Locke came forward, the lower jaw of his skull’s face slack as if he might burst into laughter. He reached down and placed a hand on the chieftain’s shoulder at the base of the throat, accepting both his surrender and the subjugation of the clan to his rule. Locke’s hand tightened on the Troll’s neck, summoning The Necrosse. The aged warrior could feel the wizard’s attack, but was unable to rise or resist. He looked up from his supine position into the red glare of the sorcerer’s eyes, knowing. The warrior bore his death silently. The old eyes blinked and then closed, and moments later, the head lowered. The assembly took no notice of his murder as they dropped to their knees in clusters to pay homage to their terrible new king. “You were stronger than I thought, old one.” Locke said softly to the body at his feet. “Things will proceed more smoothly without you.”