TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  "From the left, my King!" replied rune number one, at the ready, concealing his body well behind his round black and white shield.

  The ground was unfavourable to the northerners. The edge of the ditch rose up to about the height of a man. It was made insidious by the rain, transformed into slush. The edge of the road, although very wide, had two deep ditches, flooded by the insistent storm. The cowardly enemy hid behind a row of mulberry trees, at the top of the ditch. Numerous arrows were shot from among the foliage, but fortunately with so little precision that they seemed like aimless shots.

  "Men, let us go straight on! Spur your horses and unsheathe your weapons!" Holaf ordered in as strong a voice as his throat could manage. He spurred his valiant steed to a most frenzied pace. This tactic was the right one. The group galloped away from the shots of their assailants, who were forced to reveal themselves while chasing their elusive prey.

  Shaken by the ferocious gallop of the steeds, the armour rattled loudly. In the pouring rain one of the knights belonging to High's escort lost his balance on his horse, falling ruinously to the ground. The animal neighed desperately in pain, suggesting that the worst had happened to both horse and man. The terrible fall threw the knight suddenly to the ground. He risked being trampled by his companion behind him. The second rider dismounted from his horse and skilfully shot an arrow through the wind and storm, towards the pressing enemy. The sharp metal stuck into the leading enemy’s head, piercing his eye and mincing his brain. His life taken, the aggressor fell, causing the next attacker to stumble, slowing down the enemy charge.

  "Men to the ground!" shouted the knight, as he reloaded the crossbow and shot an arrow hitting an enemy horse. The word travelled quickly from knight to knight, to the ears of the Kings. The two Sovereigns did not need to consult each other, but they took the only correct action in such a situation. No man could be abandoned, so they stopped galloping.

  The thundering hoof beats, battered the earth as the Masters aligned themselves in an arrow–like battle formation aimed at the enemy lines, ready to overwhelm them. The Dragon was at the centre with his war hammer. He twirled it in the air producing a dull whistle. On his right, the Demon of the North was brandishing the long sword from which he took his nickname. It was such a powerful weapon that it intrigued all who saw it. By their sides, the Wolf, the Bear and the Leopard now became the parts of the most powerful tactical war machine in the north.

  The sound they made was a mixture of the whistling of the hammer, the deep dark drumbeats and repeated war cries, together with shouts and metallic echoes ringing through the air. The attack of the Nordic warriors passed between the opposing ranks of the enemy to the sound of repeated blows. They were like a scythe going through a wheat field. So much vigour was used in the manoeuvre that only a few brigands were still in the saddle after the first impact. Taken from their steeds, they were left kicking with furiously at everything that approached them. Then it was the time for steel against steel and the most brutal hand to hand combat.

  In the pouring rain, the swords slid easily off the shields of Trondheim. The same was not true for the bandits. Taken one after the other, they fell under the blows of the Masters of War. Holaf, driven by divine fury, wielding his enormous sword, as only a giant could, inflicted blows that went unanswered by his enemies. Loud cracks and grievous supplications mixed with the noise of the resounding thunder, hurled from a heaven that seemed hell bent on participating in the battle. Lower in number, but better in every other respect, the Trondheim War Masters quickly reduced the numerical disadvantage. What with a skull exploded by a violent hammer blow here and an amputated limb there, followed by a torn belly, victory was close.

  "Bandits? These are soldiers dressed in rags!" the third Master of War exclaimed, expressing himself with difficulty because of the effort of battle.

  "We had guessed that they were not ordinary bandits during our conversation with Armillus. He reported assaults in organized groups," Holaf replied before sinking his blade in the chest of one of the offenders, generating a huge flow of blood.

  Holaf fought using his well-trained body and brute strength. He did not dance like the Lord of the South, dodging and sparring. He preferred direct assault, pushing and hitting. The right comparison for Holaf's fencing style could have been with a large war Orc thrown into the fray. It was very different from the fast and flowing fencing movements seen at Tartaros.

  He lifted his weapon to the sky. His sword was one and a half times as long as a normal sword and more than twice as wide. Holaf angrily aimed his blade at an incautious assailant. The fake bandit was swift and placed his shield between them, but nothing could stop such a blow, though the sound was masked by thunder. The shield was crushed, as was the arm that held it. The sword followed its own path slitting the bandit’s chest and tearing his flesh. The blow was so violent that it smashed through to the bandit's knees, throwing him to the ground stunned, incredulous and frightened. The warrior of the north now turned his attention to his next opponent. But first he lifted his foot and hit the face of the man on the ground with the heel of his boot, giving the blow all the strength he still had. The bandit’s nose and the bones of his face were crushed in a single strong snap. Holaf rotated his foot to the right and the left stopping his only when nothing large enough to crush remained.

  With a loud bang a hammer broke against the shield of the Nordic King. Holaf was more impressed by his proud new adversary than by his powerful wooden hammer. The bandit appeared strong and vigorous. His amazing muscles were not concealed by chain mail, body armour or clothing of any sort. He swung his wooden hammer, its head studded with iron pyramidal nails. He kept swinging it round and round. Fortunately for the Nordic warriors, he did not inflict any serious damage.

  Long sword stood tall on the battlefield and stared at the man from his monstrous helmet. He raised his arm and pointed his long blade at his impressive opponent, inviting him to single combat. The man did not need to be asked twice. He ran towards the King who stood still, protected by his shield. As the two challengers came close, the hammer was well aimed, flying very close to King Holaf’s face. He was forced to retreat, and retreat again, driven by the naked warrior. The bandit wielded the huge hammer apparently effortlessly. He fought vigorously, constantly pushing the mighty Demon of Trondheim.

  Holaf used the time to take the measure of his enemy. For the last of many times the bandit’s hammer crashed into the muddy ground, splashing soil all around. Then Holaf’s heavy sword hissed with his first blow. The sharp blade tore a deep cut across the right arm, the muscular chest and finally the left limb of the evil one. The hammer fell to the ground, while copious blood flowed from the wound. The huge bandit retreated terrified under the flow of blood, aware of his inexorable fate.

  There was not a single word between the two, no a petulant supplication, which was very satisfying to the warlike spirit of the Lord of the North. King Holaf attacked his enemy with an energetic push of his shield, knocking him down into the mud. Then he skewered his adversary’s face with his long blade. The blow was not precise. The blade slid over the bone and chopped the mouth. The great Northern knight, given the imprecise result, placed his left hand on the pommel of his sword and quickly pushed the weapon until it went into the ground under the bandit’s head.

  High did not take part in the fighting, not because of cowardice or lack of talent, but to give protection to the ladies. In fact, the criminals were not just waiting for their turn to be converted into road paving . They had raced beyond the mighty and apparently unstoppable knights of the north to try their luck, battling against the soldiers of the east.

  "Do not be afraid, my dear Madam, no one will touch you!" A soldier in the escort attempted to reassure the young Tyra. The terrified princess cried out looking around, wielding a ridiculous golden dagger, perhaps five fingers long.

  High was a very good fighter, no less than his peers. The God-Slayer, daring and reckless, ignoring his lack of shiel
d and helmet, faced every attacker with his guard high. Several chose the beautiful princess as a target. The fencing style of the Lord of the East was more like Godwin's, perhaps less clean and refined, but faster and just as effective. A small side step placed the valiant King of the East at the exact spot to deliver a deadly blow to the head of an assailant. A rapid spurt of blood flowed over the bandit’s face, pouring out from underneath his broken helmet. Yet another opponent was felled at High’s feet. Seeing many attackers advancing he shouted:

  "Withdraw damn you, if you want to save your own lives!" But his counsel floated in the wind.

  High noticed, with the tail of his eye, a warrior from the east in trouble. The man was injured in one arm and had slipped on a corpse, ending up in the mud. He risked becoming an easy prey for any aggressor. A bandit, laughing shrilly, lifted his sword high and attacked the soldier, who was hiding behind his shield. Three blows were struck, their sound booming and counted by the warrior who was protected by the shield. The warrior of the East was in a panic, confused by the noise of the rain. He heard a rumble as a final blow overwhelmed him with its threatening sound. Then a heavy weight fell on him. He rose from his shelter and saw the God-Slayer at his side. There was only half of the assailant remaining, lying across his legs. The other a half was a little to the left, a mass of steaming, smelly offal covering his shield.

  "Curses! That is revolting! The stink will remain on me for the rest of the trip!" the wounded soldier exclaimed, disgusted, touching his left arm, which had a large bleeding wound. "Thank you, my King, I slipped on the ground. It is very dangerous because of these corpses piling up."

  "There's no need to justify yourself, I'm happy I arrived in time so as not to have to bury you!" said High. His attention was drawn to Holaf and his War Masters, who were busy delivering their final blows.

  "My brother, are you resting already?" Holaf asked, seeing High from the corner of his eye. High was standing still, not smashing heads.

  "No, no, brother, my work is done, now I can admire yours!" High answered, shouting.

  "If I dare ask, my King, what do you admire?" the Dragon asked, while with his war hammer he hit an aggressor’s face so strongly that the man’s head exploded, spreading pieces to the land beyond the ditch.

  The macabre sight was accentuated by frequent flashes of lightning. They showed the monumental dark mass of the Master of War to good advantage, against the pale sky, as he battled to victory.

  "The power of the North!" answered High concisely, holding his breath for a further blow. "Brutal and crude to be sure, but beautiful!" The God-Slayer ended with an admiring glance before turning his attention to the rest of the riot.

  Holaf pierced a man on the ground, then opened his arms wide and pleaded for mercy, shouting:

  "No Valhalla for us today!" And he pierced the ground or what lay on it a second time. Long Sword, breathing heavily because of the effort of battle complimented him by saying, "My Masters of War, you have been formidable, as always! Now make sure they are all dead and search them well, one of these dogs will surely carry some useful information on his person!"

  Tired Holaf approached High with a heavy step, almost dragging his feet in the mud and put a hand on his shoulder. The gesture was reciprocated by the God-Slayer, just before they burst into laughter. It was the wild hilarity needed to relax tension after the battle.

  "We're still in this world!" High exclaimed, between breaths.

  "It really does seem so, my dear brother!"Holaf answered also breathing heavily. Looking around and seeing the many corpses lying on the ground, he commented, "But then, my brother, you haven't been here taking tea with the ladies! I see many enemies on the ground!" and they both burst into laughter again.

  Tyra, upset, shouted almost hysterically with her big eyes wet with tears:

  "What have you to laugh at? Does it seem the right moment?"

  Immediately the elderly Lady stood in the way fearing the worst from the warriors. The Sovereigns, tired after the battle, turned to Tyra. The fears of the duenna did not become reality. High spoke to them with extreme courtesy:

  "We ask forgiveness, Your Grace, but we must release stress and tension, and the best way to do that is with foolish laughter."

  "Excuse the princess, she's just frightened by the events, but she's grateful that you didn't allow any malicious person to touch her," said the elderly woman politely and respectfully. She was well used to habits of royal palaces.

  "Milady, you've been travelling with us for hours and, to our eyes, it's obvious, you're an expert in courtly manners and educated for life at court, but you haven't revealed your name yet," Holaf asked.

  "My name is Elisabet, and I have lived too many years in courts and palaces," she answered before bowing and turning to take care of the young princess. Tyra still carried her small noble blade in her hand. "My dear, put your weapon away, the battle is won!" she said gently, turning to Tyra, who was gazing absently, staring at a young bandit with beautiful features lying on the ground.

  The bandit still clung to life, just breathing, and asking for help in a thin choked voice. The supplicant had a large hole in his chest near his collarbone. Perhaps he could have been saved, but the road before them was very long, with little food. A dead weight would hamper them all.

  The Lord of the North came forward, in his bloody armour. Small fragments of bones and tufts of hair were glued here and there by coagulated blood.

  "My delicate Princess, please move away and don't look," Holaf asked kindly, hunching his shoulders before undertaking an unpleasant task.

  "What do you intend to do, my King?" Tyra asked foolishly, still frightened.

  "What needs to be done, delicate Tyra!" The mighty man answered coldly.

  "But we can take him to the first village and hand him over to the militia!" The young woman with a tender heart replied forcefully.

  Holaf looked at her and shaking his head said:

  "You are too magnanimous, young princess! This pig who is now begging, had it not been for High, myself and our soldiers, would have robbed you, raped you and killed you!"

  King Holaf's words resonated loudly and violently in Tyra's head, making her flee elsewhere, while long and cold steel put an end to the young bandit's pleas.

  "Have we any injured in our ranks?" Holaf cried out, pulling his sword from the young corpse.

  "I have two!" High replied with a bit of embarrassment.

  "We have two!" Holaf pointed out, before ascertaining their state of health, "In what condition are they?"

  "My King, I only have a cut on my arm, I can stitch it so I can ride by your side without any problem," one of the two soldiers answered.

  The other wounded man was the first knight to fall from his horse. He had suffered an ugly cut on his forehead. He had hit his head brutally on a rock in the mud. The man was bruised and lying on the ground, his horse had broken its right leg. So it was impossible for him to continue. High stood observing his knight, and was pleased to see him show the first signs of recovery, but the God-Slayer had sensed the sad fate of the horse, for whom nothing could be done, except for putting an end to his sufferings.

  "The horse must be slaughtered unfortunately and the injured man carried for the moment

  "My King, I will carry him without any difficulty!" The only Black Portal soldier in perfect condition offered his services.

  "Very well, my warrior! We are agreed, it is up to you!" exclaimed the Eastern Lord the visibly disappointed in his soldiers, hiding unspoken thoughts.

  "My brother, what is it that you have to say to me? Is it so heavy that it sticks in your throat?" asked the Lord of the North, as with a heavy heart he slipped a blade into the chest of the horse so it suffered no further.

  "I apologise to you for my soldiers, my brother. You have withstood the impact of the bulk of the enemy. We faced few and the most cowardly, but in spite of this, the wounded are all among the soldiers of the East," whispered High in a low voice in
Holaf‘s ear so as not to harm further the morale of their men.

  "Don't joke, my brother, you've always been as valiant and sincere as you are now. I could ask for no more from an ally!" the Northern demon answered proudly, smilingly, with his face still concealed by his helmet firmly on his head.

  "My Lord, you really have to see this!" a warrior wearing a helmet in the shape of a bear's head cried out.

  The two Kings raced to where most of the bleeding rabble lay. A gutted bandit was lying on the ground. Under his rotten rags he wore a blue lozenge and garnet tunic embroidered with lion with two tails in gold thread. It was the livery of Varius.

  "That son..." High controlled himself so as not to become vulgar. "These are men faithful to the son of the Emperor!" exclaims High amazed. "We will have to warn Grigor, because he is riding into the territories of that traitor."

  "Always assuming that Grigor, that useless nobleman, really went to Varius, as he promised the Emperor. In any case, it is probably too late and the betrayal will have come to light on its own," Holaf replied. The Lord of the North, addressing the fourth warrior, asked, "My Master, have you found similar uniforms among the other dead?"

  "Yes, my King, we have five men of Varius certainly out of thirty-eight assailants," replied the fourth Master of the War.

  "Did you find more information in their pouches?" asked High in a worried voice.

  "My King, for now only money, a lot of money, to tell the truth, food, a few bottles of alcohol and nothing more!"

  The knight with the Dragon helmet picked up and tried a sword. It did not satisfy him so he threw it away, picking up another. After examining it carefully, he sheathed it in his scabbard and continued the search for another weapon. When he found a satisfactory one, he went to the princess and offered it to her saying:

  "Young daughter of the North, do you know how to use a sword?"

  "I wouldn't say I can use it correctly," replied young Princess Tyra, uncertain and troubled.