Blackblade cursed and shook a mailed fist at his men, his voice like the crack of a whip. A soldier paused to wipe his sweat drenched brow and, in the process, threw off the rhythm of the others.
“His given name was Dhurkhan Blackblade, a name that filled the hearts of men with fear and hate. His brutish biceps were thicker than a man’s calves; his shoulders rose above a tall man’s head. And Blackblade’s ability to intimidate was more than physical, for he was Supreme Warlord of the Army of Acheron and brother of the dreaded Xaltotun.
“Blackblade cursed and shook a mailed fist at his men, his voice like the crack of a whip. A soldier paused to wipe his sweat drenched brow and, in the process, threw off the rhythm of the others. An instant later, the soldiers head flew from his shoulders with a scarlet spray. It thumped down the marble steps as Blackblade ordered another to take the dead man’s place.”
Acheron; long will it’s name live in infamy. An ancient civilization of black hearted sorcerers, it conquered the north in the name of vile magic and blood fuelled corruption. Only the wild tribesmen who dwelled in the gray hills of the north, where Cimmeria stands now, were able to resist them. All other nations fell beneath their blades and sorcery.
Dhurkhan Blackblade was one of its most feared dark-champions. Leader of the thirteen hosts and commander of the greatest army to march across Hyboria, they were all lost when the Holy City of Nithia was scoured from the face of the earth some three thousand years ago.