Hofsa: The Norse
(The Late Iron Age)
Brandr was deeply concerned. He knew Hofsa was slowly dying. Cod disappearing from the sea. The increasing cold making farming difficult. The yield was getting smaller.
Our people should move. But where? The better lands were held by rival clans. Even distant familial ties with some of them were not enough to overcome the generations of hate and bloodlust, thought the village chief.
The settlement’s resources were not enough to support a venture further out beyond familiar shores. For people to leave piecemeal would leave defenseless those that remained. Nor is the settlement’s small fleet enough to fight off blood enemies, rivals, or even a pirate horde.
And he was now the chief of his people. The heavy burden was on his back and might well-nigh break it. The salty breeze which caressed him as he stood by the seashore didn’t give its usual refreshing effect.
As he gazed at the fading rays of the sun amid the creeping fingers of the incoming darkness, he noticed a disturbance in the waves.
Unfortunately, Brandr was unarmored but he had his sword with him. The chieftain drew it from its sheath.
But as he gazed upon the figure emerging from the sea foam, he had a sinking feeling of who was coming. He returned his sword to his sheath, knelt on the sand, and bowed his head.
“My Lord Aegir, you bless me with your presence.”
The figure walked in silence and stopped in front of him.
“Rise, Brandr. Your heart had been burdened as of late. Fear not. With courage, your people will live. Do your people have courage?”
“We are men of the sea, my Lord. We have courage enough.”
“Then listen. This world now only offers you death. I offer you and your people a chance at life, with the blessings of the gods. Another world. A better world. Another chance at life.”
“And the price, my Lord?”
“The transfer has a cost. A high one. Enough energy is needed to open a Gate long enough for your people to pass through.”
Brandr was silent. His settlement was poor. They didn’t have riches.
“We are poor, my Lord. Riches in gold and jewels we don’t have.”
“The cost requires energy, mortal. Magical artifacts could provide it.”
The chieftain slumped.
“Gold and jewels, we have none. What more for magical artifacts?”
“Mortal bodies can provide the energy, Brandr. If thy people cannot provide it, then find others who will. Call me by this strand when you are ready. Ten mortal vessels will be enough.”
Abdal: White Hun
(circa 558 A.D.)
Abdal reined in his horse. He could see his mounted scouts returning, behind him, the tents of his people—the pitiful remains of his clan and part of the great Hephthalite Empire spanning the Asian mainland.
Formerly great Empire, that is, the war chief bitterly thought.
Leave it to those traitorous Sassanid bastards to again stab us in the back. We helped them against their enemies. We even put their kings on their thrones. True, we ruled them with the sharp edge of our blades. Now, our Khan is dead. Our surviving brothers scattered to the four winds.
The result of the disastrous battle was the death knell of the Empire. The Gokturk-Sassanid alliance mercilessly hunted down remnants of the White Huns. No quarter was given. Men, women, the old, the infirm, children, infants. All were killed when their enemies got hold of them. Few, if any, made it to the slave markets.
The remnants of a dying people, he mused. Formerly feared throughout the world. They called us Haital, Ebodalo, Yipdaat, Yeoptal, Huna. Our name was death. And now death comes for us.
He glanced at his guards. Only fifty men. There was a time when his personal retinue counted in the hundreds. His clan’s tents now only totaled a couple of thousands. The scouts drew near.
“Hail, Chief of the Khingila Clan!”
Abdal raised his hand to acknowledge the greeting.
“What news, Octar?”
“So far, no sighting of our pursuers. Ahead, about a day’s leisurely ride, is a small town. A strange people. But the town looks rich. Must be a trading town.”
“We need provisions. We take it.”
Two days after, the red setting sun was obscured by the haze rising from the smoking ruins of the town. Hacked and dismembered bodies crowded the streets. The town guard, though a substantial force, was no match for the sudden onslaught of the Hephthalites. The fury and experience of his men’s swords did the rest. Swords. His clan was aptly named.
He walked into the sacked temple located near the town’s destroyed gates. The loot of the temple was piled up in the courtyard. Bloody bundles of cloth which once been men or parts of men decorated the courtyard. His men told him the resistance was fiercest in this temple.
That’s a lot of golden trinkets and gold bars for such a small town. Must be trading well, he observed.
He spotted an ornate but locked golden box the size of a small cushion. It was decorated with diamonds and semi-precious stones. Some indecipherable symbols were engraved in front. He gave a sign for one of his guards to take it back to his tent at the clan’s camp.
When he arrived at his tent, the box was already placed before his favorite cushioned low chair. As he walked toward the seat, he gestured for one of his experts in such matters to open the box. It took the man a while to open it, and paid for it with his life when the hidden poison trap was triggered as he finally unlocked the casket.
As some men took away the body, one of his men opened the casket for him. Amid the golden interior lay a small ancient tile of corroded copper, the sigils on it barely readable due to time and decay. It was held in place by two thin straps of gold.
“What trickery is this?” he angrily shouted. Abdal was expecting a great treasure. Not this piece of garbage.
The furious chief drew his longsword and with all his strength cleaved the small tile. The sword went through the golden container easily and cut the tile into pieces. As the small tablet broke into pieces, a sharp keening filled the air together with a bright flash instantaneously spreading in a wide circle from the chief’s tent. The blinding light encompassed the encampment and up to a mile beyond it. Then it was gone.
And so were Abdal, his tent, and his people.
About the Author
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The ACCIDENTAL ARCHMAGE Series
The ACCIDENTAL ARCHMAGE OMNIBUS Series
The ARCANUM ASTRAY Series
PLANAR WARS Series
ANCIENT FANGS Series
MANUS DEI Series
VOID TEMPLAR Series
PAVEL MAVETH Series, and the
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