The Battle for Jordborg

by Logan Petty

  His foot sank an inch as he stepped forward. A strange powdery substance sprayed up in the air around him. He rolled forward as a flame shot upward, igniting the powder. The blast sent Vaskar reeling, setting his garments ablaze. He quickly threw off his disguise, watching it burn as the blaze behind him subsided. He checked his face and body. Only minor burns on his hands and arms. They hurt, but nothing that would not heal. He looked around while he had the blessing of light. Several more raised stones peppered the floor in a random pattern. Tiny holes around the triggers indicated more traps. Vaskar cursed himself for not thinking the Vault would be protected from the inside as well.

  He quickly rose to his feet and tread cautiously among the pressure plates that littered the hall. The light faded slowly as the garments smoldered into ash. Vaskar felt as if he danced with death as he stepped to the left, then to the right, leaping over entire rows of plates and sometimes backtracking when he found himself in an inescapable situation. Darkness fell over the chambers once more as he made it to a larger hallway in which four branching corridors ran perpendicular. He wandered down one of the halls, remembering these from his youth. Rows of doors lined each side of the passage. Behind each of those doors rested the bones of members of the Jordborgan nobility. Governors of the isles, lords of the mercantile enterprise, bold ladies who bore the royal bloodline forward. His mother’s bones slept somewhere within these chambers. The thought of Xifrieg’s profane magic disturbing her rest sickened Vaskar. He pressed onward, determined to do whatever it took to protect his family, living and deceased.

  The other end of the hall opened up into a wide chamber that featured a single door on the wall opposite Vaskar. This onyx portal appeared similar in design to that of the main entrance to the Vault. A hand shaped indention served as the only decoration upon the solid stone. Vaskar carefully walked up to it, examining the hand with suspicion. He knew what he had to do, but he possessed enough wisdom to know that sticking his hand on that indention would not be a pleasant experience. He sighed, seeing no other way in this barren chamber. He pressed his bare palm against the cold stone and gave it a push.

  Pain surged through his hand as several tiny metal barbs pierced his flesh. He instinctively pulled back. When he did so, the barbs ripped at his skin, bringing miniature founts of blood from the wounds. Vaskar pressed his bleeding hand against his thigh, hoping to staunch the flow as he checked the door. Droplets of his blood trickled downward, collecting at the base of the hand, where it sat in a tiny pool a moment before draining out of sight through a tiny hole in the door. A moment of silence passed before the sound of stone grinding on stone filled the room. The black monolith sank into the ground, revealing a dimly lit chamber within.

  A large crystal hung from the ceiling of the Antechamber, supported by a gold chandelier. Four silver chains held the whole thing aloft as a soft white glow radiated from the crystal. Vaskar remembered the stories his mother told him. The Sefaskr was a gift from the Hold’s celestial guardian, the Raven Lord. The sacred gem’s light prevented the corruption of death from reaching the bodies of the fallen kings. It also turned the cruel hand of undeath away. Vaskar marveled at the Raven Lord’s foresight, but wondered why he only protected the sleeping kings, and not the rest of the royal family.

  Six stone slabs encircled the chamber, resting against the circular walls. Each one bore an image of a Segrammir upon its stony face. The one opposite the entrance wore the likeness of Lord Tyraiq, holding his spear triumphantly. Vaskar’s father stared at him from his monolith to the far right. The prince shuttered, remembering the day he first saw this chamber.

  He was six. Father took him into the antechamber to view the newly completed sepulcher. Vaskar could not understand why his father needed a tomb when he was so full of vigor and not full of years. Death could not be coming so soon that such a grim monument needed erection now.

  Death comes for us all some day, Vaskar. As a mortal king, it is important to remember this. We construct new tombs upon the rise of a new Segrammir so that the young ruler may be reminded of the brevity of his reign. We are not designed to rule forever. A firm grip on mortality allows us to focus our attention on what is most important.

  What is most important, father?

  Vaskar remembered the king’s warm smile as he answered his young son. Leaving behind a legacy of good deeds, so that your children may look upon your tomb and smile, remembering the kind of ruler and friend you were to your people.

  Vaskar’s heart sank as he returned to the present. Staring at his father’s tomb now only brought pain to his chest and tears to his eyes. As he looked upon the tomb all he could think of was the treacheries and betrayal his father brought upon the Hold. Vaskar knew the Segrammir was not to blame, but Hammerhold would not be so forgiving. It broke his heart to think that noble King Skirndolg would die a treacherous dictator who nearly brought about the destruction of Jordborg. He knew Xifrieg was to blame. He wiped the moisture from his eyes as he turned toward the first Segrammir’s tomb. If his father truly died as himself, he would have returned Harfjothr to its rightful owner.

  The stone slabs only resonated with those who carried the blood of Tyraiq in their veins. Vaskar’s mother used to recite a poem about it when he was small, though he could not remember the lines now. He reached out and pressed his wounded hand against the monument. It immediately slid backwards, retracting into the wall to the left. As the dust settled, Vaskar peered within the tomb.

  A handsome, dark skinned elf sat upon a throne of gold with crimson cushions. He wore elegant black vestments trimmed with silver embroidery. A crimson cape hung about his shoulders, rippling down to his sable leather boots. A silver crown inlaid with sparkling rubies rested upon his brow, his shining black hair flowing down from it, not one strand out of place. His eyes remained closed as if sleeping. Though the king had died two hundred years ago, he looked as if he could stir at any moment. In his lap, resting on the arms of the throne, sat Harfjothr.

  The Spear of Kings shone like brazen metal. Its golden shaft glowed with twelve rings of runes spread evenly across its length. A red leather wrap wound around two sections of the spear where one’s hand would grip in combat near the top for close quarters and near the bottom when extending one’s reach. The head of the spear burned red as the setting sun. Its mythril blade affixed to the shaft by an elaborate cross guard of black steel which spread outward like the wings of a raven, the Hold’s sacred animal. The craftsmanship and beauty of the spear alone commanded loyalty to those who could wield it. He remembered seeing his father use it on the battlefield and knew just how much respect the owner of Harfjothr deserved.

  When he was a teenager, he fought alongside his father at the end of the last war with Jordborg. Before that, he trained under Skirndolg’s tutelage, despite his physical limits. Those did not seem to matter when he charged forth with the holy spear. Enemies cut into him, yet he fought onward, unfazed. The shining spear cut through weapons and armor as if they were flesh. His father’s speed and strength remained unparalleled for hours at a time. He became more than a man. More than a mortal.

  These thoughts churned in Vaskar’s skull as he reached for the sacred weapon, his heart racing. His fingers wrapped around its warm metal and his eyes moved up to the face of the ancient ruler. He bowed as he lifted the spear from its resting place.

  “Lord Tyraiq, bless me with your grace, that I might right the wrongs committed against your domain. Please lend me Harfjothr’s divine might so I may drive the verminous usurper to the rivers of the dead. May his corpse never walk again.”

  He stood up straight, holding the Spear of Kings in both hands. He could feel a divine energy surging through it, strengthening his heart and his body. The pain from his burns subsided. His hand’s wounds closed up. The fatigue from a long day of fighting and running from enemies lifted. A grinding sound came from behind him. He turned in time to see the door of the Antechamber close. An old man with silvery hair and cracked skin, dr
essed in gleaming armor stood in front of it, wielding Lykill.

  Vaskar slowly emerged from Tyraiq’s tomb, gripping Harfjothr firmly. “This cannot be. Why are you here? How did you get my sword? You died years ago. Speak, phantom!”

  Skirndolg smiled, a darkness glinting in his eyes as he raised Lykill. “I am no phantom. We knew you would come. That little display of force outside the city walls has been dealt with. Your friends are dead. Now you are trapped away in this tomb, never to escape. What a fitting setting for your demise.”

  Dread rippled through Vaskar’s being as his father spoke. “No . . . . This cannot be. I will leave this place! I will destroy the one responsible for this and free your soul, father.”

  Skirndolg laughed, “You cannot free a soul which is not under conscription. Tell me boy,” he said, pointing at the crystal above. “If I remained a thrall to Xifrieg’s dark magic, how could I stand beneath the light of Sefaskr? No, there is so much you do not understand.”

  Vaskr clenched his jaw as he braced Harfjothr. “You’re right, I don’t understand, but I won’t let you keep me here! I must destroy Xifrieg and save our nation!”

  His father gestured for Vaskar to begin his attack, like he did during those long days of training as a youth. “Then come, child. Let us see if you possess the resolve to face your foes.”

  The prince let his bated breath out, gripped the haft of Harfjothr tight, and sprang forward. He let out a battle cry as he charged Skirndolg. The king dropped his defenses last moment as the Spear of Kings pierced his stomach. Vaskar gasped, pulling back immediately. Harfjothr’s blade tore from the wound in Skirndolg’s torso. The king fell to his knees. Vaskar dropped the spear shaking his head slowly.

  “I . . . I don’t understand. Why didn’t you defend yourself? You . . . you were my enemy.”

  Skirndolg smiled up at his son, blood trickling from his lips as he spoke. “And despite my station as your father, you struck with absolute resolve. You held nothing back, and Harfjothr felt it. It resonates with the worthy. Your blade could not pierce me if you had faltered in the . . . slightest.”

  The king collapsed on the floor. Vaskar knelt down beside him, lifting his father’s head. Tears filled his eyes as he addressed the king.

  “Why did you do this? If you had yet lived, you could have reclaimed the throne, restored your name -- your honor. Why throw it all away?”

  Skirndolg smiled weakly, his eyes glazing over as he labored for breath between words. “My time . . . as king has passed. I made . . . my choices . . . , forged a legacy . . . of evil. No one will ever remember good . . . King . . . Skirndolg . . . . Only . . . only the tyrant who . . . sat as a puppet . . . upon a throne of deceit . . . . Now, the spear . . . belongs to you. Wield Harfjothr . . . with pride . . . and forge . . . a new legacy . . . .”

  Skirndolg’s gaze wandered to a point in the distance beyond which Vaskar’s eyes could see. His mouth turned feebly upward, forming a smile as his breathing halted and his body grew still. Vaskar sobbed as he pressed his father close. Grief swirled within his head and chest as he gritted his teeth and rose to his feet. He lifted Skirndolg’s body from the ground and carried him toward the tomb that awaited his interment all these long years. The slab ground out of the way as he approached, revealing a long table of stone within. Vaskar placed the king’s body upon the stone and folded his still warm hands across his chest. Finally, he closed his father’s eyes for the final time, tears falling from his own. He left Skirndolg’s smile. Something about it comforted him. Today, he dined with his fathers. Today, he held his wife again after so long. Good King Skirndolg could smile hereafter, and Vaskar would not take that from him.

  Vaskar left the tomb and pushed the monolith back into place. When he turned around, a tall figure cloaked in a robe of mist stood behind Harfjothr. Shadows shrouded the being’s face, obscuring his features, save a long black beak that protruded from beneath his hood. Two majestic black wings, like those of a raven, adorned his back, their feathers gleaming with an aura of magic. Solid black talons replaced human feet. Two ghostly white flames burned where his eyes should be. Vaskar fell prostrate.

  “Oh Raven Lord, I have seen your face. Have mercy on me, a murderer of kings.”

  “Rise,” a voice like the rushing wind said to him. “I have seen your deeds this day and hold you faultless.”

  Vaskar stood up slowly, afraid to look the Raven Lord in the eyes. The celestial creature spoke again to him, filling the chamber like a hurricane.

  “Vaskar Geldhart, son of Skirndolg Geldhart, today your deeds have been judged . . . and you have been found worthy. Take now Harfjothr, Spear of Kings. Alongside its power, you shall become the avatar of the Raven Lord. My spirit will be your spirit, as it once was to your father.”

  Vaskar looked up. “So it was you who kept him alive all these years?”

  The Raven Lord nodded sagely. “Your father willed it, that he might test you before the hardest fight of your life to this point. Satisfied, his soul finally knows rest, but yours has many years of strife yet to come. Take my mantle, become the Blessed Heir. Purge the outsiders from these sacred halls and take your place as rightful ruler of Jordborg. When the time is right, all will know you are blessed by the gods.”

  Vaskar strode forth and leaned over to pick up Harfjothr. The swirling vortex of power in the room converged upon him as he touched its golden rod. The Spear of Kings sang a song to him that had no melody, no harmony. It had no notes, no meter, only his heart could hear it. The Raven Lord’s corporeal form shimmered and became a silvery cloud that poured into Vaskar, filling his soul and changing something within him. He felt a power not his own, and yet familiar, as if it had always been there. It surged through him. He smiled as he spoke aloud, turning to the exit.

  “I am ready. Xifrieg, when next we meet, your unnaturally long day of life will turn to night, and my new day will dawn.”

  . . .

  Kyra moved quietly down the nearly empty streets of Jordborg. She glided past a pack of gnolls as they tore apart some unfortunate soul who ventured too far out into the open while looking for scraps. The smell of gore turned her stomach. She walked faster as she passed by, hoping the stench would mask her scent. She felt a tingle run across her skin. She dodged into an alleyway and found a stack of busted crates to hide behind. Mari and Timbrell materialized beside her, fading into existence from out of nowhere. Mari looked around, an exasperated expression on her face. Timbrell whispered to Kyra.

  “This is the third time that spell of yours has worn off, lass. Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

  Kyra scanned the road ahead, watching for movement as she snapped back, “Of course I don’t know where I’m going! But since you’re the local, why don’t you take the lead?”

  Timbrell’s fur stood on end, making him look puffier than usual. “I’m no local. I come from Alfhaven. Never even left home ‘til a week or so ago!”

  Kyra glared at Timbrell. “Oh, okay, then. In that case, why don’t you be helpful and stop talking?”

  Mari frowned angrily, making a series of hand gestures at Kyra. Timbrell chortled, covering his mouth with his paws. Kyra’s eyes flicked from one nuisance to the other.

  “What did she say?”

  Timbrell shrugged, clamping his fingers across his muzzle. Mari silently giggled. Kyra felt her temper rise. She blew through her nose and pushed past the two, knocking Mari with her shoulder as she passed. She did not have time to babysit this mute and her pet. The night hours passed quickly and she still needed to find the Palace of Rats the fairy woman spoke of. More troubling yet was the man who sat at the throne of said palace.

  She reflected on the stories the prioress told her during her days in the orphanage at Borukstad. She used to tell her tales of a man named Captain Whyteskornr, who served as a brave privateer for the Hold of Jordborg. Kyra fell to sleep at night dreaming of high adventure on the southern seas, fighting monsters and battling foreign invaders. She admired Ca
ptain Whyteskornr’s adventures so much that she aspired to become an adventurer herself. On her eleventh birthday, roughly a month after her discovery of an aptitude for magic, a dwarven adventurer and his elven apprentice appeared at the orphanage. This is how she met Axel and Reisim. They had come on rumors of a human child gifted in the arcane arts. When Axel discovered she was an orphan, he adopted her on the spot, much to Reisim’s protests. That same day, as the papers where signed and the adoption made legal, the old Prioress gave Kyra a parting gift. She handed her a silver dagger wrapped in a silk handkerchief. The initials A.W. stood out in black stitching on the white cloth. The dagger shone as if it had just been polished, though the Prioress claimed she had just withdrawn it from storage.

  Kyra gripped the same dagger in her left hand presently as she peeked out into the open, looking up and down the deserted streets. This dagger, the Prioress claimed, belonged to her father. A man who claimed to be Captain Archel Whyteskornr. Kyra could never get straight answers from any of the adults as to the wellbeing of her father and eventually assumed his death. Now she strode through the dark lanes of Jordborg hunting a man who abandoned her seventeen years ago to persuade him to provoke an uprising against the Hold’s enemies. All this for a Hold her adopted father viewed as a bitter rival to their own home of Anvilheim.

  The heroic life is not an easy one. It is full of hard choices and harder actions. Sometimes the deed of helping an enemy can be more heroic than slaying a thousand.