by Unknown
“Anyhow, in addition to Odin, there’s seven gods what we northerners fancy a bit more than the rest,” said Ob. “Inside, we got statues and such to each of the others, so as not to leave anyone out. Never a good idea to offend a god, so we make certain each one is held high and touted in some way or another somewhere in the ‘home. Some in the South got other godly preferences, mind you, but we don't much care what them folks think. We do things our own way up here. Always have.”
Ob approached the entry doors and pulled on a large iron rung that served as a door handle. “This here is Tyr’s gate,” he said as he strained to swing the massive door open. The smell of firewood, hickory and birch, wafted toward them as the door opened, along with the welcome scent of roasting meat.
They stepped through the entrance onto the grand arcade that encircled the interior perimeter of the building. The place was mostly one huge open room. The covered arcade opened to a sunken seating area with a very high domed ceiling. Sturdy looking men with somber expressions walked purposely along the arcade while the subdued and mirthless voices of others rose up from the seating area beyond. When Tyr’s gate closed behind the group, the wailing sounds almost entirely disappeared and they breathed the easier.
“This is one of my favorite places in the Dor,” said Ob to Theta. “As long as at least two of the doors are propped open, there is always a nice breeze in here, so the air is fresh, unless the priests have the incense burning, and even that stuff don’t smell half bad. It never gets too hot in here, and rarely gets too cold. It’s a good place to sit, talk, and think and whatnot.”
“Look around—we don’t build random in these parts. Everything we put together has got its proper function and place, or else some symbolic meaning that's important to us. Them stairs, for instance,” he said, pointing across the arcade, “they’re aligned with the doors, so that when you stroll in, you cross the arcade and head straight down to grab a seat in Tyr's section, no fuss or wandering about required. Seven steps there are, each seven feet wide. They take you down to the central dais where abides the all-father’s altar and other sacred thingamabobs. And between each set of stairs, there is a long narrow table and bench what sits seven at least on each and every step. Seven’s got some religious meaning what escapes me at the moment, but it’s something important, I’m sure. Donnelin would know—he prattles on about it during one of the high holy days every year.” Ob scrunched up his face and shook his head. “Anyway, if you can cypher good and proper, you’ll come up with seats for 350 warriors, battle clad and blood ready. We can squeeze in twice that many folks all casually dressed and sitting cozy. Not to mention the hundreds what can stand around up here on the arcade bleating like sheep and picking their noses instead of paying attention to the service, just so they can say they were here.”
“Ole Brother Donnelin is many things, but an inspiring orator, he is not. So the place don’t get crowded much, especially since them weaselly prelates from the Outer Dor’s temples have siphoned off most of his flock and their tithes with them. I get stuck having to dip into the House treasury to pay the upkeep on this place—there are just not enough donations to keep the roof tight and the paint on the walls, and there hasn’t been for years,” he said as they walked across the arcade. They warmed their hands at one of the long, rectangular, iron fire pits arranged at the inner edge of the arcade, just behind the top row of benches. The pits were topped with iron gratings, and here and there, a slab of meat roasted over a crackling fire.
“The hour is late for supper,” said Theta.
“I won’t say no to a nibble, if asked,” said Dolan.
“We always feast before going to war,” said Ob. “It’s tradition. We’re big on that in these parts. Tradition, that is. It grounds us. It reminds us of who we are and where we come from, and that’s important. Fiercely important to us northerners, especially to the Eotrus. The family line hails all the way back to Odin himself—a direct bloodline to the gods, or so goes the tale.”
“Tradition is why each of them seating sections,” he said pointing, “is dedicated to one of the big seven: Thor, Heimdall, Balder, Tyr, and the rest. Them friezes along the walls behind us feature each god’s deeds, even the ones what make little sense to us mere mortals. There’s also a statue, big as life, of each god at the top of their stairs,” he said pointing. “Some of them are near as tall as Artol. I suppose that’s to be expected, them being gods and all.”
“We got stained glass in the windows way above us—hard to see right now owing to the dark, but trust me, it’s there, and it's not just colored glass, mind you, them windows tell tales: prayers, stories, and such. That glass goes back hundreds of years, salvaged by the Eotrus from some forgotten temple in the mountains. Tradition. It means something.”
“Impressive workmanship,” said Theta as he looked around.
“Don’t see no workman’s ship,” mumbled Dolan as he turned this way and that. “Not even any water in here. Dry as a bone, it is.”
Ob beamed. “The stonework is gnomish, of course, made way back in olden days, except for a few recent additions whittled by dwarves out of Tarrows Hold. The best of them was carved by me ole buddy McDuff—that granite statue of Heimdall at the top of yonder stair. We had to replace the original about ten years back—it got busted up during some unfortunate fisticuffs. I still say it wasn’t his fault, but Aradon told McDuff he had to replace it or else. So he did—carved it by his own hands. Took him nearly a month working night and day. I have to admit, he did his penance right and proper, as his work is a sight better than the original. More lifelike and bigger muscles. A statue of a god ought to have some muscles, don’t you think? But I always pictured Heimdall shorter.”
“That section over there is reserved for Odin, the all-father,” said Ob pointing to the northernmost portion of the building. He held off describing what they saw in that direction, and instead turned to study his guests’ reactions.
Across the seating area, on the far side of the building was an enormous granite statue of Odin seated on a polished, white marble throne. If the statue could have stood, it would have surpassed thirty feet in height. The all-father leaned forward, hand to his chin, horned helmet atop his head, a long spear in hand, and gazed down on his followers with his one wise eye. A stone wolf stood on either side of him, and a raven perched on each of his shoulders.
Dolan’s eyes went wide, but Theta gave nothing away—as if he had seen such sights a thousand times.
“No grand cathedrals, but we got that,” said Ob pointing to the statue. “And nobody else has got nothing like it. We figure the Eotrus of olden days built the Odinhome around it, because there’s no way they could’ve hauled it in here.”
“Is it one piece of stone?” said Theta.
“Aye,” said Ob.
“Then it is a wonder,” said Theta. “Such things are rarely seen these days—the skills of the old world, long lost.”
“Long lost, they are,” said Dolan.
“And look up there,” said Ob, pointing to the ceiling.
At the inner edge of the arcade, the building transitioned from its octagonal shaped base into a grand ribbed dome of heavy timbers that rose up some 75 feet above the altar at the building’s center. The dome’s apex was open to the sky. A huge mural of Odin riding a chariot pulled by an eight-legged horse dominated most of the dome’s inner surface, its once vibrant colors muted by long years of exposure to smoke and to the elements. Below the mural was Ob’s line of stained-glass windows, inset between each of the dome’s timber ribs.
“They always put a beard on him,” said Theta under his breath.
“Of course they do,” said Ob, hearing the remark where a volsung's ears would not have. “Everybody knows Odin has got a beard, long and white, and such. In times past, most every man in Lomion wore a beard, not like today, though they’re still common enough here in the North, especially after winter sets in.”
A knight walked to a lectern on the dais a
t the hall’s center and shouted to all to find their seats and quiet down.
“Glimador is calling things to order,” said Ob. “Claradon must have finally got his butt over here. Let’s grab some seats. Who are your patrons?”
“What?” said Dolan, confused.
“I have no patron,” said Theta rather abruptly. “I need no patron.”
Ob looked more confused than Dolan. “I’m asking, because by tradition each warrior sits in the section marked for his patron god, or in any section he likes, if his patron is Odin. Don’t your people follow the Aesir?”
“Most do,” said Theta, “but I’m not much of a follower.”
“I can respect that, I suppose. Not every man goes in much for religion nowadays. The thing is, Claradon don’t got the loudest voice—you’ll hear next to nothing back here. Best pick a god, whichever one you followed back before you stopped following.”
Theta sighed. “Odin.”
Ob’s eyes narrowed. “Good choice, same as mine, but why him? I mean, if you sit somewhere you shouldn’t, the gods may take offense. I can’t have that. This mission is too important.” Ob stared up at the big knight demanding an answer.
“Let’s just say that Odin and I are old friends. I doubt he would mind me sitting in one of his pews.”
“You speak as if you know him,” said Claradon, as he stepped up beside them wearing a clerical vestment. “As if he were no more than a man.”
“Some say that he was,” said Theta. “A man, that is.”
“Heresy, my lord?” said Claradon.
“What’s that mean?” mumbled Dolan.
“Not if it's true,” said Theta.
“Truth is in the perception more than the fact,” said Claradon.
“Who taught you that?” said Theta.
“An observation of my own, but I believe it to be correct more often than not.”
“Then you are a man of wisdom, Eotrus. Midgaard needs men with like that to balance out the abundant stupidity,” said Theta, as he glanced sidelong at Dolan, who in turn, stared at Ob, who huffed and took another large gulp from his wineskin.
“Enough chatter,” said Ob. “Get down there, boy, and lead us in the oath. We need to get this done and get a bit of sleep before comes the dawn.”
***
Rising up more than eight feet in height at each point of the octagonal dais at the building’s center was a cylindrical plinth intricately carved with runes and religious imagery. The great altar loomed at the dais’s center; the lectern off to the side. Two white robed pages stood near Claradon, one held a smoldering, perforated iron box of incense, the other, a golden holy symbol.
“Hear me my brothers,” said Claradon as he stood behind the Odinhome’s lectern clad in the priestly vestments, robe, and sash of the revered order of Caradonian Knights, their sigil prominently displayed at his breast. His hooded robe resembled that worn by priests and monks, though it was tailored to accommodate the long sword that he wore at his hip and contained myriad pockets for carrying and concealing gear, large and small.
A thick leatherbound tome lay before him. He reverently opened it to a bookmarked page, though he barely glanced at the words, so familiar to him were they. “The Warrior's Oath, from the Book of the Aesir,” he said in a bold, strong voice, enunciating each word. “Now gather close and harken to my words, for they are passed down to us from the Age of Heroes.”
“Good, he’s speaking the modern version of the oath,” whispered Ob to Theta. “We get nothing but the old one from Donnelin and nobody understands a word of it since it’s in Old High Lomerian. Who the heck speaks that nowadays? Nobody, I’ll tell you, so what’s the point?”
The page passed Claradon the chain by which he held the smoldering incense box. Claradon took it and slowly walked to each point of the dais while mumbling some religious words no one could make out. He paused at the corners and swung the box several times, which caused the incense to waft about, its gray smoke billowing up around him. The odor, not unpleasant, soon filled the hall.
“I say that the old version is good for the high holidays only, if even then,” whispered Ob. “But Donnelin will hear nothing of it. He just won’t get with the times.”
“Ain’t he supposed to speak from behind the altar?” whispered Dolan.
“More questions, Mister Chatterbox?” said Ob. “Only the House Cleric speaks from the altar. Anyone what else got reason to speak, stands tall at the lectern. It’s tradition.”
As Claradon recited the first verse, the knights each dropped to one knee and bowed their heads. The sun still several hours from rising, near seventy men were gathered in the Odinhome to hear his words, though that number sparsely populated the great hall. Dolan respectfully lowered his eyes, while Theta looked around, studying the gathered men, taking their measure. Gabriel, Artol, and Paldor (Gabriel’s squire) sat in the front row of Heimdall’s section. Sir Glimador, Sir Indigo, and Sir Bilson sat in Thor’s area, and Tanch lounged in the last row of Frey’s section looking tired and gloomy. The rest of the knights each sat in their chosen place. As Claradon recited the prayer, a page turned a handled wheel beside one of the plinths, which caused the plinth to rotate. Carvings on the plinth’s surface depicted images or symbols evoked by each line of the prayer.
“Look unto the north and behold the Bifrost and beyond—ancient Asgard, shining and bright, though hard and cold as the stone, the ice, and the sea,” said Claradon.
“To the north lies Asgard,” said the men in unison.
“Now look unto the east and behold thy brothers, thy sons, and thy comrades.”
“Now look unto the west and behold thy sisters, thy wives, thy mothers, and thy daughters.”
“Around us are our kinsmen, always,” said the men.
“Now think not again of them until we march on the homeward road.”
“Not until the homeward road,” said the men.
“Now look unto the south and behold thy father, and thy father's father, and all thy line afore thee, back unto the beginning.”
“Unto the beginning,” said the men.
“Now look forward and behold thy fate. Before thee lay the paths to victory and glory, and the paths to defeat and disgrace. Intersecting these paths are the road to tomorrow, the road to Valhalla, and the road to darkness.”
“Beware the dark road,” said the men.
“Now look above thee and behold the all-father. He beckons us forth to meet our fate. He tells us that the path we choose is of our own making.”
“Our path is our own,” said the men.
“Now my brothers, vow thy path.”
“To victory and tomorrow if we can, to victory and Valhalla if we must,” said the men. “This we vow.”
“We will bring Lord Eotrus home, or take vengeance on his slayers if he has fallen,” said Claradon. “This we vow.”
“This we vow,” said the men.
“Rise now my brothers,” said Claradon, “and go to thy fate with Odin's blessing.”
The men arose and stood silently for several moments. Sir Gabriel left his seat and quickly walked down to the dais, his squire and sergeant following. He turned and faced the men. “I’ve some gear to distribute to you before you leave,” he said loud enough for all to hear. “Everyone wait here.”
“What’s this?” said Ob.
Gabriel walked around the central dais, and entered the northernmost section of the hall. He and his men passed the statue of Odin, turned, and disappeared from view.
“That is an odd thing,” said Ob. “Gabe is up to something. I didn’t even think he had a key for that door. By rights, he shouldn’t. A weapons master has got no business back there, no business at all, but there he goes, all la dee da and casual, as if he had been in there a hundred times, and them two with him. I’ll have words with Artol about this, I will.”
“What is back there?” said Theta.
“The ossuary.”
“What’s that—some kind of outhouse
?” said Dolan.
“It’s the House crypts,” said Theta.
“The place of the dead,” said Ob. “What gear does he have stowed back there? Old great-grandpap Eotrus’s rusty sword? Makes no sense.”
“No sense at all,” said Dolan.
Claradon was puzzled when he saw Sir Gabriel, Artol, and Paldor enter the ossuary. He thought that only his father, Jude, Ob, Brother Donnelin, and he were permitted entry, except during burials. Only the five of them knew that there were secret ways through the ossuary’s warren of deep tunnels. Ways that led under the wall, to emerge well into the northern hills—an escape route, should the family ever need it. That use aside, he hated the place, but when his attention was drawn to it, he found it hard to turn away. Its very look frightened him—it had since he was a little boy.
Bleached bones were affixed to the door frame, the wall, and the door itself, and countless more were piled in great heaps on either side of the entry. Claradon knew that the bones were merely symbolic—they were not the bones of men, for such a display would be barbaric. Instead, they were bones of horses, deer, elk, mountain lion, bear, and mammoth killed during hunts over the years. He had contributed his share to the pile. Those on display were mostly ribs and leg bones, which were more easily mistaken for those of men, which was the intent. The place was supposed to repulse common folk. And it did.
Claradon hadn't ventured inside since they laid his mother to rest there. Lifting her frail body into the stone coffin and closing the lid had been the hardest things he had ever done. It was the only time he'd seen his father weep. Even years later, Claradon could barely think of that day without his eyes growing wet. He remembered that when she died, the masons labored nonstop for three days to ready the coffin for her funeral. Teams of them worked in shifts to carve it from a single block of black granite hefted down from the hills.
What ghosts and spirits dwelled beyond the ossuary’s door, and worse, in the crypt’s lower levels, he shuddered to think, though his rational mind told him there were no such things as spectres. Dead was dead. No one in the Dor was more superstitious than Ob, yet he never feared going in there, at least not that he let on, so Claradon shouldn’t fear it either, but he did. It was a fear he couldn't shake.