Ferran was awakened by a gentle hand shaking him. The innkeeper opened his eyes to see Thidrek kneeling next to him, and saw through the trees that the first hues of dawn touched a clear sky.

“You didn’t wake me to take my turn,” Ferran said. “You must be exhausted.”

Thidrek shook his head. “I slept. I had a feeling that no harm would come to us here.”

“Who believes in faerie tales now?” chuckled the innkeeper.

“Perhaps I do,” Thidrek answered with a smile. “Come, break your fast. Then, we’ll face this trial.”

After eating quickly, they broke camp and were off just as the sun cleared the horizon. Ferran, using the map, guided them through the forest. The trees began to thin after a time, and soon became so sparse that they could see some distance ahead. Beyond the forest, an open plain stretched before them. Across this expanse of wild grasses and stone they could see the mountains rear up against the sky.

They halted just as they passed the last of the trees, and watched the wind-swept plain in silence. Ferran pointed toward the base of the tallest peak ahead of them.

“There we will find the portal. And the trial.”

Thidrek nodded, and motioned for Ferran to lead on.

The plain was preternaturally silent. They could hear no sounds of small animals or insects, only the sighing of the wind through the grasses. The sun marched across the sky, and it was just past its zenith when Ferran stopped Thidrek with a hand on the warrior’s arm. The innkeeper produced an antique spyglass from his pack, pulled its telescoping sections open, and peered with one eye at the foothills now less than a quarter-league distant.

Ferran lowered the instrument and, his eyes still on base of the peak, passed it to Thidrek.

“There,” said the innkeeper quietly, “between the pillars.”

Thidrek looked through the spyglass, his heart hammering. Amidst a field of boulders, two rough pillars of rock stood before a mound of granite. Etched into the stone of the mound was the likeness of an alfari king similar to the one depicted on the map. The old warrior, his hands shaking, collapsed the spyglass and handed it to Ferran.

“Come,” Thidrek said, his tongue thick as he took another step toward their goal.

“Wait!” Ferran gasped, gripping the warrior’s shoulder. “Look!”

The air before them began to shimmer as if they stood on desert sands and were faced with a mirage. As they watched, the shapes of men began to materialize in the haze. The figures gradually became more distinct, and, to the growing horror of both men, Thidrek and Ferran began to recognize faces in the spectral throng.

“The great god Camran save us,” gasped Ferran. The innkeeper’s fingers dug into Thidrek’s armor. “Forgive me, my friend! I was mistaken! The fallen have come to judge us!”

Thidrek could not deny that it was indeed a legion of the dead that confronted them. The ragged host that blocked their path seemed composed of mist, and the granite mound could be glimpsed through their ghostly bodies. They appeared much as they had in life, except that their eyes were white orbs devoid of pupils and irises. Each of the specters bore the wounds that had ended their lives.

Thidrek found himself unable to move, his eyes drawn to the empty gazes of his victims. He could recognize them now. There was Oreth, Champion of Tegrida, and the ragged gash in his throat made by Thidrek’s sword. And there was the Knight of Sevar, Ernich, whose head Thidrek had split with an ax. The Knight’s white eyes stared blindly from the gore of his riven skull. There were others who were once legends, but many more were nameless men who had had the misfortune of meeting Thidrek in his countless battles. Footmen, archers, cavalrymen. Commoners and nobles. All had tasted death on the edge of his sword. And they had come to make him remember, to make him suffer.

“So many,” Thidrek whispered hoarsely. “What have I done?”

Ferran sank to his knees. “They have returned seeking vengeance, and we must face a reckoning!” The innkeeper gagged and retched. Thidrek could not see Ferran’s own specters, but what the innkeeper saw was driving him mad.

The old warrior gripped Ferran’s arms and bellowed at the innkeeper. “Stand up! Face them! You defeated them once, you can do so again!”

“No! No! Stay away!” Ferran began to scream wildly. He flailed his arms, his legs kicked in spasms.

Thidrek looked up to see the dead were indeed closing in around them. They had encircled the two men in a matter of moments. The ring of shades was tightening slowly, inexorably.

Ferran screamed again and clutched at his chest, then a croaking grasp rattled in his throat. Another tremor shook the innkeeper before he went limp in Thidrek’s grasp. Ferran’s eyes stared unseeing at the old warrior.

“Ferran!” screamed Thidrek. The dead crept closer still, almost close enough to reach out with their phantom weapons. The warrior let the innkeeper’s lifeless body slip to the earth and stretched to his full height.

“You have claimed one of us,” he spat at the dead, “but I will not relinquish life so easily.”

Thidrek drew his notched broadsword and held it before his eyes in a ritual salute, then held the blade in a ready stance as if receiving a charge.

“I have naught to fear from you! You died by my hand in honorable battle, and I will have no shame. In life, I gave you the respect a man owes to his enemies. If you mean to end my days and take my soul, I will fight you again. You may drag me to the realm of the dead, but I will not go willingly!”

The specters ceased their advance. They watched him for a long moment as he stood with sword raised defiantly. Then, one by one, they began to fade. Thidrek dared to glance back over his shoulder at Ferran.

A mist had risen from the earth to shroud the innkeeper. As the warrior watched, Ferran’s body became as insubstantial as the vapor engulfing it. The innkeeper began to dissipate before Thidrek’s eyes.

The old warrior turned back to face the specters. Only a few remained, and it was toward these he directed his outrage. “You cannot take him! You have no right!”

“His dead have the right,” spoke the ghost of Oreth. “He succumbed to his guilt and fear, and thus dishonored their spirits. As for you, Thidrek of Narad, we grant you a gift.”

The shade strode forward, the last of the spectral army to remain on the field. Thidrek shifted his stance, raising his sword in challenge. The ghost stretched forth its hand and brushed the warrior’s blade with its fingertips. At the touch, Thidrek felt a tremor run through the metal.

“We have deemed you worthy. Place your sword in the hand of the stone king, so that you may dwell forever in the warrior’s paradise.”

“But what of the trial?” Thidrek asked. “What of my greatest foe?”

“You have already defeated him.”

With those words, and a final gesture toward the mound, the specter vanished. Thidrek was alone on the plain. The warrior regarded his broadsword, puzzling over the shade’s final words. Then realization struck him.

“Ferran, my friend,” he said in wonder, “it was us all along. We are our greatest foes.”

The warrior spun once more to look for Ferran’s body. But the innkeeper was gone.

“Farewell, blade brother,” Thidrek whispered. “My eternal thanks is yours. May you find peace.”

The warrior strode across the plain until he crossed between the stone pillars to stand before the mound. The carving of the alfari king regarded him with eyes that reminded Thidrek of the dead. The old warrior looked at the figure’s hands. As on the map, the alfari held one at his side, and the other was lifted in salute. The carving was a bas-relief, its form raised no more than the width of a finger from the surrounding stone. Neither of its hands seemed ready to accept his sword.

Thidrek looked at his sword, then grasped it by the blade. He offered the hilt to the carving as if giving it in a show of fealty to a liege. The old warrior stood as still as the stone king for what seemed an eternity. Suddenly there was the sound of grinding slate, and the carving’s upraised hand pushed out from the surrounding granite. The grey fingers grasped the hilt, and an astonished Thidrek released the sword.

The alfari king raised the blade over its head, and a rumbling began to emanate from the mound. The stone king sank into the earth, taking Thidrek’s sword with it. Where the carving had been there was now a door into darkness. Thidrek peered into the entrance. The light of day seemed to stop abruptly at the threshold, unable to penetrate the blackness.

“I have no more need of my steel,” the old warrior intoned as he looked down at where the carving had disappeared. “My battles are behind me. I give the sword to you gratefully, and with gratitude I set bloodshed aside.”

With a deep breath to prepare himself, Thidrek stepped into the darkness. A moment of blindness and disorientation washed over him, and then he emerged into soft radiance. He stumbled and caught himself against a cool, smooth surface. The warrior saw that he leaned against a pillar of marble. Thidrek looked around, and gaped in awe. He was in a vaulted chamber, the ceiling almost lost in twilight. The place was lit by countless candles that rested in niches and candelabra. There were more pillars, and arches that seemed carved from solid gold. The domed ceiling was graved in patterns that called to mind constellations.

In the middle of the chamber stood a woman. Her back was to him. She wore a gown of purest white silk, and her raven-hued hair tumbled over her shoulders in rich waves. The candlelight shimmered on her pale skin as if it were glass.

Thidrek stood motionless, taking in the silence of the place, admiring the sinuous curve of the woman’s back. Finally the old warrior took a tentative step toward her.

“My lady,” he called. “What is this place? Is this sainka badal ?”

It was not what he had expected. The tales had prepared him for a rough-hewn hall where warrior’s souls feasted and fought for all time. This seemed too much like the afterworld of which Camran’s priests endlessly preached.

Yet who am I to question paradise? he thought in wonder.

When she did not turn at his call, Thidrek approached the dark-haired woman. As he drew closer to her, scents of jasmine and hyacinth enveloped him.

Perhaps I will dwell with an angel for all time, and we shall rule this small heaven together.

Thidrek stepped to within a single pace of her, then stopped, breathing deep of her perfume. He reached out to her with a trembling hand. His fingers brushed her hair.

“My lady?”

The woman whirled on him, impossibly swift. Thidrek staggered back as delicate white hands gripped his shoulders with inhuman strength. He cried out in pain as her fingers dug through his armor and into his flesh. Then he screamed when he saw her face.

The woman’s visage was more ancient than the oldest village crone, her shriveled skin a sickly blue-white. Her eyes were like black obsidian buried in the pits of their sockets. A discordant wailing and hissing escaped her mouth, which opened so wide it seemed her jaw came unhinged. Her teeth were gone, and a long grey tongue writhed. Her breath was a nauseating miasma.

The fiend, screeching, began to draw the warrior toward her. The horrible mouth loomed closer. Thidrek pushed at her, struggled with all his might. Yet she drew him closer still. He screamed again, and the thing’s foul mouth closed over his own. To his terror, something that felt like a fist began to push itself down his throat. Breathing became impossible. The soft candlelight began to fade as Thidrek’s sight dimmed, and oblivion washed over him.

Story plucked from:
http://www.dndadventure.com/html/short_story/ss_warriors_reward.html