The Legend of Brigaard

by Horace Armstrong

Soon it was Ceriuz and the sick king alone in the tent.

  It was getting dark, and the only light was an oil-lamp placed on a wooden stool.

  'It didn't look like it was possible...for the Osterlay to make the shot. I guess it was my fate to get hit by a lucky shot.'

  Ceriuz smiled, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

  'By my side,’ Jaks continued. ‘Swaddled in the red velvet cloth...my sword, bring it to me.'

  Ceriuz picked the sword and unwrapped it. It was a beautiful sword, passed from father to father in the Brigaard family. Jaks father had given it to him on his 18th year. The cold steel glinted in the light of the lamp, and a master craftsman ornately decorated the hilt. A wolf walking in the plains surrounded by swirling lines and symbols of a language long lost.

  'The magic comes from the hilt, not that I would know,' Jaks said. Every word seemed to come out with an effort. Ceriuz yearned to ask him to rest, but instinctively he knew the words he heard from the king tonight was important. 'My Great-Grandfather used it - uurrghh - used it to slay an ogre that had been terrorizing the village but alas -' he smiled weakly '-you were there, so you know the story...tell it to me.'

  Ceriuz swallowed a lump in his throat.

  ‘Tell me the story Ceriuz,’ the king repeated, barely above a whisper.

  Ceriuz nodded.

  'I was a young man then. Twenty years before, a woman had given birth to a monster. A terrible baby with a deformity so acute, none but the mother could bear to look at it. It was decided by the King - your Great Grandfather’s father that the baby was to be killed. The woman wept and begged for the child not to be slain. I can still hear her pitiful cries now, as she cowered at the foot of the King who sat impassively on his throne - the same one you sit on today. The King consulted me, and I begged for mercy; saying the child should be spared and hidden from society. He also asked Zoorv, himself a young wizard at the time, but he said it was a bad omen. The King, until then, had always favored my council over Zoorv, but that day - that day, it was as if his heart was made of stone.'

  'It was my great grand-fathers twin was it not?' His face was pale, but his eyes bright and alert.

  'Not technically but they were half-brothers. We did not know at the time, but she was your father's mistress and the monster his child, born on the very same day the Queen gave birth to your Grand-father.'

  'And the legend has it that that's why he could not abide it lived. He ordered his men to seize the child and to execute him immediately-'

  'Yes,' Ceriuz agreed. 'However the soldier to do it had taken pity on the mother. He slaughtered a hog instead and smeared his body with pig’s blood. He returned to the king and told him the child was no more, while he had given it back to the mother - on the promise that the child would be taken away somewhere far from the city.'

  He paused as Jaks had closed his eyes. 'Continue...please Ceriuz.'

  'The mother gave the child to her own mother, who was in the cult of Ahje; a sisterhood who worshiped in the woods on nights of the full moon. The child's grandmother took the child deep into the woods and summoned a Wolf, who she entrusted with the child, and the Wolf raised the child like a cub until he was a full-grown. As it never lived amongst men, he walked on all fours, howled and ate raw meat which he hunted himself.'

  'Describe my great-grand uncle,' Jaks commanded.

  'He was a giant, standing a head taller than the tallest man. His shoulders were as broad as two full grown men and his arms and legs, which were like tree trunks, had a network of veins, like large worms running the length and breadth of it. He had one huge eye on his forehead and the other, much smaller near his broad nose. His mouth was full of fangs and even though he was as hairy as a bear, there his huge misshapen head was bald. He was a monstrosity.'

  'You saw him,' the King whispered.

  'Yes,' Ceriuz replied softly, still shivering at the thought of the monster. 'His Grand-mother and his mother visited him regularly. They would bring food and drink which he would quaff; though he could break their bones as quickly as one breaks a twig, he was gentle with them. When his Grandmother stopped visiting, he asked why. When his mother said she was dead, he let out a terrifying howl that could be heard by all in the city. That was the first we heard from the Ogre. Five years later his mom died.

  On the night she died, he waited and waited, and when she did not come, for the first time he left his hideout deep in the woods and ventured into town. He climbed a tree and howled for his mother for five straight days. The first night of the howling was so frightening; even the bravest soldiers shut themselves in their houses and bolted their doors and windows. Some children playing in the woods claimed to have seen a monster in a tall tree, howling and sniffling, with one eye and a running nose.

  The next night he returned and started howling for his mother "Mami" "Mami" "Mami."

  ‘A group of Soldiers were sent to investigate, and they saw him bawling in the tree, like an overgrown baby. The commander scared out of his wits decided to do what men do when they see something that terrifies them - destroy it. He raised his spear and with all his might hurled it at the monster. It hit him in the thigh, and it let out a howl of pain, before clambering down and ambling into the woods.

  The men, emboldened, each dreaming of the glory of providing the blow that killed the monster, raced after him. That night was a night of horrors. The people did not sleep waiting for their men to come back - but they never did. The next night when the howling began again, no one dared go out. In the morning, a group of brave soldiers went to the monsters trees and saw a truly horrific sight; festooned on the tree were the five soldiers who had gone after the monster; their skins had been flayed to the bone, and they had been disembowelled.’

  'The howling stopped soon after but the real terror was just beginning?' Jaks said, his eyes shining in the darkness.

  'Yes. Something changed in the ogre. Perhaps he had now gotten a taste for human flesh or maybe, as some suggest without the maternal influences of his mother and grandmother (the only link between him and the civilized world) the cruel side of him was unleashed. Nobody knows, but for three years, the monster would occasionally sneak into town and abduct a Pitsman; never a woman just a man.

  The next day the body - or what was left of it would be found - on a tree, on the side of the road, always somewhere where it would be quickly discovered. It meant to terrorize us, and by the seven gods, it did. At the same time, your grandfather was growing into one of the most fearsome young warriors in the land. Tall and robust, he was the best swordsman anybody had seen for a generation and rode as if he were born on horseback. One day, he met with his father and begged to confront the Ogre. He promised to bring back its head and end the misery of the people. The King, fearing for his heir's life refused but the young Prince would not be dissuaded. He pleaded and pleaded until the King reluctantly agreed. That night the King called his son into the room and gave him the sword of Brigaard.

  "It has magical powers," he said. ‘With it, you will stand a chance against the beast.'

  'The same sword I use until today,' Jaks said wearily. 'It is said that in the right hands, it can turn into an incandescent blade, a thousand times sharper than the sharpest blade and a hundred times hotter than a volcano.'

  Ceriuz nodded. He had seen the sword in all its furious destructiveness only once in the hands of Jaks’ Great Grandfather. Since then none of the Pits king seemed to have the gift of igniting its magic.

  'The very next night, when the howling began again in earnest, the King's son, your grandfather, along with four other hand-picked young warriors went towards the edge of the woods in darkness. It was decided not to light a torch so the monster would not be alerted by its flame. So imagine four mean stealthily walking towards a monster strong and ferocious enough to tear 20 men apart.

  After a while, the king's son Briovy stopped the men in their tracks. His sharp eyes spotted a silhouette; the was monste
r hiding in-between branches on a tall sturdy tree. He selected a spear from a pack they had carried with them and cocked it ready. All the men held their breath. It was dark, and visibility was poor. If he missed, it was anyone's guess how the monster would react. All of a sudden the Prince flung the javelin with all his might; the missile flew straight and true, a great howl of pain, permeated the night darkness so that men shivered, women rushed to their children’s room, and the children sobbed in terror. The monster was hit in the chest; it tumbled from the tree and landed on the earth with a loud thump.

  Immediately he staggered to his feet and raced into the woods. The men let a great cry of triumph.

  “Light the torches men...and after the ogre. Whoever brings him down will be talked about for generations to come.' The men lit crude flames and ran after the monster into the deep, dark woods.”

  For a big beast, remember it was several heads taller than a normal man and weighed as much as three, it moved quickly and quietly through the woods. It was in great pain, and bleeding profusely, for the first time in his short, brutish life, he was the quarry and fear propelled him on. The men, unaccustomed to moving in the woods, made a lot of noise, treading on dry wood, brushing past branches and startling little animals but they persisted, following the trail of blood the monster left behind.

  Each man gripped their swords as they rushed onward, the thought of glory filing them with euphoria, making them careless and vulnerable. The monster's fear, on the contrary, heightened its senses, its will to survive, brought out an animal cunning that his pursuers lacked. He came upon a large boar and with lightning speed pounced on it. He bit hard into its hind leg drawing blood; then he released the squealing animal, who in turned hobbled off in pain, leaving behind a trail of blood.

  It then looked around until he found a sturdy tree, and clambered up with an agility that would have shamed a monkey. There he waited. It was not long before the pursuers arrived. They paused a few meters from the tree and viewed the area with the light of the torch. If they had been hunters instead of warriors, or perhaps older more composed men, they would have noted that there seemed to be two trails of blood, they would have looked closer and discovered that while one continued deep into the woods, the other stopped at a tree just by them; alas in their excitement they missed the vital clue.

  "Look here," A warrior shouted, pointing to the hog's blood. “The trail leads that way.”

  The prince, his great chest heaving from his exertions said, “Follow me brave men, we are nearly upon the beast.”

  With that, they pushed on, following the trail of blood that lined the leaves and floor of the forest.

  The monster finally was able to breathe easy. It grasped the javelin embedded in his chest and broke it with a grunt, then, a feeling of rage and vengeance it had never experienced before seized him, making him bare his fangs, saliva dripping onto its great heaving chest. It clambered down from the trees, and the hunters became the hunted.

  The men traced the trail of blood to the slain hog. They huddled around shocked; gazing on the beast in bewilderment. Your grandfather, who was a man of remarkable intellect suddenly realized he had been tricked, the hair on the back of his neck stood as he turned around and confronted his worst nightmare, the red hot eyes of the ogre, glowered back at him. He veered to one side, and this was what saved him from the tremendous blow of the ogre.

  It was meant to take off his head, but it glanced his shoulders instead; still enough to dislocate it and send him flying into the bush. The ogre’s howl was like that of an enraged dragon as he grabbed the second man and at the same time striking a third so hard his skull was crushed, and he was dead before he hit the ground. He squeezed the forearm of the man in its grasp, and heard it crunch as the man wailed in pain; there was a moment of satisfaction when he gazed at the man's stricken face before he bent and bit a huge chunk of flesh, bone and sinewy muscle from the man's neck. He spat it out and went after the fourth man, who had run blindly into the forest. With a few strides, three times the length of an average man's, he was on him. He leaped on him and pinned him to the ground. The searing pain he felt from the spear's blow, and the outrage of being hunted overwhelmed the beast, and it rained blow, after bow on the man's head until it was flat on the earth. Finally, it stopped and howled again, and all creatures of the forest trembled, except one - your grandfather. He had recovered from the blow and had snuck behind the beast. He raised his sword, and brought it down with great force into the small of the ogre’s back. The angry howl, turned into a yelp of pain as the sharp sword penetrated bone, muscle, and organ.

  With a mighty effort, your Grandfather retrieved his sword embedded deep in the ogre’s back and sunk to his knees, exhausted, and nursing his burning shoulder. The beast squirmed horribly for a while then lay still as you grandfather watched in fascination.

  Then, incredibly, the ogre stirred. Your grandfather watched in horror as it rose slowly to its feet and faced him. At this time, both man and beast were in great pain and had little left.

  Your father raised his sword, but the ogre beat him to it, with a blow to the head that sent your grandfather flying. Had the ogre not been spewing blood from two terrible wounds it would have been a horrible death for your grandfather as well, but it sank to his knees, crying in pain. Your grandfather reached for his sword which had been knocked loose by the last blow and has his fingers wrapped around it, and he felt a sudden euphoria which seemed to emanate from every cell in his body and flow into the sword.

  The blade seemed to shimmer and bend like a living thing and suddenly burst into red and yellow flames. He stood slowly with the flaming sword before facing the orge, who staggered, once again to its feet. It gazed at the young, tall, handsome man holding the flaming sword and it suddenly smiled, because it knew that today, his brutish, piteous existence would be ended and he could finally rest. It burst into laughter, and even as his head was severed from the neck and rolled on the forest floor, the laughter continued for several seconds.

  Chapter 12

  ‘The king, his queen and several members of their court were waiting anxiously in the throne room. Suddenly there was a noise that came from deep within the recesses of the palace. The king stiffened, and the queen, who had been weeping non-stop clutched her beating heart with both hands. The noise became a cheer, and then a hush fell upon all in the palace as the prince, bloodied, weary and limping came into the room, a canvas slung over his right shoulder. The queen made to go to him but was restrained by the stern eyes of the king. What his impassive features could not tell was that he was just as relieved to see his son, and had to restrain himself with herculean self-will not to leave his throne and embrace the prince.

  The prince, wanting to milk the moment walked up to the throne and dramatically upended the canvas. The monster's head fell to the floor with a thump and rolled unevenly ending at the foot of the king's throne. The prince said nothing, and neither did any other person, it was as if all had collectively held their breath.

  The king got up slowly and picked the monster's large head up. Suddenly he burst out in loud laughter and held it for all to see.

  “Here's the head of the beast that has held us in bondage for so long. My son, the prince has slain the monster - tonight there will be a great festival, which will happen every year on this day to celebrate our deliverance.”’

  ‘A great cheer that threatened to take the roof off the palace arose and a couple of stalwart guardsmen, overcome with joy grabbed the prince and held him up for all to see; soon he was being passed around in the air by a happy crowd, while his proud parents beamed in delight.’

  Jaks gave a weak smile. 'My great grandfather went on to be the greatest king in a long line of illustrious regents. He unified the Pitsmen; conquered neighboring towns and villages and brought them all under his rule. He extended the kingdom to the vassal states on the fringes of the world; all this he did with the legendary Brigaard - the flaming sword and
slayer of beasts.'

  Jaks coughed and had to be given a drink of water.

  'I never could summon the flames,’ he said and coughed spasmodically. Ceriuz helped him sip some water and wiped droplets from his pale lips.

  ‘If…if there was one thing I yearned for,’ he continued, ‘is to feel the power of the beast slayer.’

  Ceriuz said, ‘Only your Great Grand-dad has been able to master the sword. Your father and your father’s father couldn’t do it either. The sword will only work for the line of the Jaks; which one it is anybody’s guess. Perhaps your son.’

  A ghost of a smile played on the Jak’s face at the mention of his baby, born a few weeks ago.

  ‘I cannot wait to see my son,’ he said hoarsely.

  ‘Soon enough my King,’ Ceriuz said. A heat emanated from the Kings body that worried him and it seemed he had lost a lot of weight in a few hours.

  The King coughed again and lifted a weak hand. ‘Bring me the Brigaarrd, beast slayer.’

  Ceriuz retrieved the sword which lay on the King's right side. It was in a worn leather sheath that hadn't been changed in a hundred years.

  ‘Let me see.’

  Ceriuz removed the sword, and it gleamed in the light of the oil light. To the untrained eye, the beast slayer was an ordinary sword. Well-crafted by an expert swords-maker and the sword of kings but average nonetheless.

  To Ceriuz however, the magic was palpable. It tingled in his hands with electricity, and when he stared at the blade, he could feel the terrible magic that had been conjured to make the knife a weapon that could fell a thousand men. He had seen Jak’s great grandfather summon the flames a few times; the sword would transform from steel blade to a 5 foot flame of yellow, red and orange hues capable of unimaginable power. He shivered as he remembered seeing the King slaying over 100 warriors with the fire; slicing them apart in 3's and 4's until they were no more than dismembered bodies and ash.

  ‘Give it to me,’ the King commanded. Ceriuz handed it to the King. He was so frail he struggled to hold up where he lay. His hand trembled, but he found strength and steadied the sword.