TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  "Fine, Commander of the whores, you've won! We’ll leave without further delay," he pushed his companions to the door and left.

  "Beauty, where would the safe exit for unfaithful husbands be?" asked the Dragon of the prostitute.

  "What do you intend to do, my knight?" she asked. She was worried about angering the Lord of the North for having indicated the other entrance to the warrior.

  The third rune gently observed her, smiled, and then answered:

  "Cover our passage and I will protect you. Those men will come back with the reinforcements."

  "But are you going alone? There are three of them!" the woman replied, but the third rune seemed almost offended and answered firmly:

  "Yes, I'm going alone, tell me where the passage is hidden, time is of the essence!"

  The woman accompanied the Dragon to a door, behind which there was a small storage room for brooms. She lifted a trapdoor in the floor where a ladder went down into a black, damp tunnel.

  "Go to the end. The fork on the right goes towards Vyborg. The left comes out at the crossroads for the main road.

  As the warrior went down into dark tunnel the woman patted his helmet and said:

  "Take care!"

  "Certainly, splendid Lady, I'll come back as soon as the task is done. Apologize to my companion, as I am leaving my guard post without mentioning anything," and down he went, closing the trapdoor behind him.

  The Dragon ran down to the bend in that fetid tunnel. No one ever cleared or swept it. The warrior emerged right at the crossroads in the direction from which they had arrived. It was most likely the same direction the soldiers of Varius would take.

  He had only to wait a few minutes when the men he had seen at the brothel came along, noisy and triumphant, riding their horses. Destiny had provided him with four enemies, not three. The earlier judgement the woman had made remained valid. Even so, the Dragon did not retreat.

  The Trondheim warrior waited near a mulberry tree, grasping his weapons, a hammer and with an axe in his usual shield hand. With his heart beating fast and his breathing controlled so as not to show his position by his breath in the cold air, he attacked like a fury, while the four unsuspecting soldiers were chatting and boasting of improbable feats. Vigorous and powerful blows smashed the legs of the poor blameless horses so the men had no hope of escape. The four knights crashed to the ground.

  "What the hell has happened!" one of the four cried out hysterically. In the dim light he could only see the huge black mass of the warrior covered by shaggy hair and bones.

  It looked terrifying. The strength of the blows was just as frightening. The Dragon took a quick turn and put the axe into the skull of the young soldier. Surprised and inexperienced the opponent fell to his knees blood spouting out, pouring down his chin from his half-open mouth. The other three soldiers saw that the monstrous warrior was having difficulty pulling his axe out, as it was stuck in the head of their companion.

  "Kill the dog!" the one with the bristly red beard shouted, unsheathing his sword.

  The difficulty keeping the third rune stuck to the body lasted the time of a curse. A hammer blow freed the other weapon, hitting the back of the axe head. The sharp metallic sound made the young man's skull creak and crack tightly. Blood and parts of his brain splashed from the axe's blade. It was freed in time to be used to parry a sword slash from the most daring of the traitors. With the blood running along the axe's edge, the third rune shoved his aggressor with his shoulder, making him fall into the quagmire. Immediately the Trondheim warrior attacked a third red beard who had come forward to help his friend. He was overwhelmed by a furious series of blows aimed by the Dragon, which broke his shield.

  The red beard’s blows rang loudly on the northern armour, scratching the steel, but not cutting through the heavy protection of the Dragon. With a rapid movement the War Master struck his opponent’s sword hand, and he was ready to run him through without mercy. The red beard took one miserable step backwards, which was useless, who had come forward to hit the War Master, but now screaming he saw his mangled hand covered in blood with the long fingers missing. Now as prey he was all too easy. Then he was abandoned by the Master of War.

  He preferred to concentrate his attention on the two companions still capable of combat. The shaggy Nordic warrior took a small series of side steps, waiting for an attack from traitors who, staggering with terrified eyes, looked for enemies in the shadows of the night.

  Fate rewards the bold and the strong, thought the warrior with the Dragon helmet. He threw himself into battle, giving tremendous war cries, overwhelming the most terrified of his enemies. Despite his forceful attack, the blow was not precise. He dropped his hammer in the mud. The Dragon, showing great strength, made a half turn and stretched out the arm holding the axe. It rustled through the air, but only scratched the shield of his adversary. Among groans and screams of pain, the Dragon as if possessed, threw himself back into battle, parrying the enemy sword at the cross piece of the weapon. He pushed hard on the squealing steel of the small soldier of Varius, who was forced to the ground not being a match for his enemy. More and more tired, the third rune of the north fell heavily on his opponent lying on the ground. Holding the man’s head with his left hand, he lifted his hammer to the sky, twisted his body around and struck the poor man right on the head. The shiny light helmet gave way, allowing the hammer point to pierce it, happy to stick into the back of his cranium, coming out through his forehead spraying blood all around.

  Rune number three heaved himself up out of the mud helping himself with his weapons. There was still one more warrior able to fight. The man was facing him timid and frightened, but not as tired as the third rune. Fear led to a poor decision, making the colourful soldier of Varius attack, screaming and insecure. Timorously hiding behind his splendid shield and with the tip of his sword, stretching out for a touch, he threw himself against the strength of the north. The Dragon's Head waited for the right moment to push the enemy out of range with his hammer. The Dragon spun round and struck the young man in the back with his axe. The enemy tried to dodge the blow but he was defenceless. The war hammer did its dirty work on the weak skull bones, putting the victory in the hands of the Dragon. There was only one enemy left who was still breathing, even if he was unarmed. With relief, the third northern rune hit the shocked stammering warrior with a crash, smashing his skull.

  The Dragon returned as dawn was breaking. He was tired and filthy with blood, covered in mud and other macabre trophies. His shoulder was still sore from a blow from a sword of Varius. The pain was annoying. As the warrior squeaked the hinges of the door, the young prostitute, involved in frivolous chatter with Tyra, ran towards him crying:

  "You've come back, my knight! How do you feel? Are you injured?"

  Everyone was already awake and worried about him, as well as preparing to continue the march. The Dragon rescued from the black beauty sat exhausted on the floor. He pulled out a parchment and drawing a great breath commented:

  "My Gentlemen, excuse me if I left you with no explanation, but tonight the situation demanded I do so." Holaf did not give him the chance to finish, but spoke to him very irritated:

  "You want to reach Valhalla too soon, my friend! We were told everything by your friend, but you should be punished severely," the Lord of the North broke in, clenching his fists and bending his elbows, as if to beat his hands on the table. His face turned red and strange expressions like grimaces showed on his face. "I really don't understand, yet you've been a soldier for many winters. Why did you go alone? Why did you leave without saying where you were going?

  It was High’s turn to comment, his voice suffocated by anger:

  "Third rune, you are a madman, but intrepid and with a great heart. Thank you for risking so much to protect us all!" After giving such a show of esteem, he took the parchment, read it in a low voice and shook his head resigned.

  "More bad news, my King?" worried, the first rune asked.

&nbs
p; "No, knight, the usual disgusting mess, we're still groping in the dark," answered High showing the leaflet without signs or signatures.

  "But tonight were they men of the son of our Emperor?" The Prince of Vyborg asked in disbelief.

  "Yes, my Prince, it is so! Braxton is definitely a rebel and plotting against his own father or at least he wants us dead," replied High simply, while looking at Holaf, who was still black with anger.

  "How much do you want if I buy back the girl?" the tired warrior sitting in the ground asked Boris, pointing to the beautiful dark prostitute.

  Boris burst into laughter, thinking it a joke, and answered:

  "That one there, if you want her, take her! I give her to you! Take her away, she doesn't earn anything!"

  "If it were true, it would be fair, but please do not laugh at me. Tell me the price of her ransom!" the Dragon insisted, while he was having his shoulder checked by one of his comrades.

  "Knight, I can't sell a slave of love without asking my father, and I don't think it's possible for you to redeem her, however talented you are," Boris answered not too convinced he wasn’t the a victim of a joke. "In any case, a lot of money is needed to redeem slaves. And, my poor unfortunate friend, it doesn't seem to me that you are very wealthy."

  "Allow me to disagree, Prince!" exclaimed the Dragon, untying two large bags from his back, full of ringing coins. He commented: "Night battles pay well!"

  The prince remained silent, while High could do nothing but laugh at the unexpected riches of the warrior.

  "There is always the stumbling block of your caste. You are not a noble and redeeming slaves is among the privileges only of such men!" Boris replied, annoyed by their laughter, though not directed at him. But for a young unlearned prince, it was a barely perceptible subtlety.

  Holaf, once his laughter had died down, moved to the centre of the room, and amazed everyone by saying, as he looked at King Demitry's son:

  "If your old father does not grant the liberation of the girl at the behest of a great warrior, he will grant it at the request of the Lord of the North!"

  High, too, was amazed by the excellent decision taken by his sword brother, and pleased, he exclaimed:

  "Bravo, my brother! I see no better way to spend money won in battle than this!" then, looking at the beautiful, young disbelieving girl, he commanded: "My Lady, I ask you to go and prepare a small amount of luggage so you can leave with us!"

  The prostitute burst into tears of joy and embraced the Dragon kissing him over and over. The royal gentlemen suffered a similar fate, but without kisses, just hugs. Even the undeserving Tyra was overwhelmed by the joy and hugs of the young dark beauty. In exchange, the Princess of South Winter, in joyful response, made an offer:

  "I’ll help you to prepare your luggage!" proposed Tyra.

  "By all the Gods, no! Not you!" exclaimed the elderly Lady instinctively, who immediately turned red and asked forgiveness. But by now everyone was laughing.

  Chapter 11

  The green hills of Vyborg

  They had been on the march for several hours, when a new day dawned in all its glory. A clear blue sky, bright and sunny, sent warm sunshine glowing past the Back of the Dragon.

  The Back of the Dragon was a high and inhospitable mountain range, delineating the northern boundary of the territories of Godwin. On such clear days it could be seen with its folds and peaks whitened by snow. The scene was idyllic, perfect for a pleasurable ride in the countryside.

  The still muddy road began to snake gently up and down the soft hills of Vyborg. The gentle, green friendly hills stretched from the slopes of the Throne of the Titans plateau to the mighty peaks of the Dragon Back to the south. In the daylight, the River Quiet flowed calm and serene, drawing curved lines through the green hills. The river seemed to be boiling with life. The cheerful bubbling of the water could be heard to several kilometres away. There was also the whispering typical of the cold winter wind, which was the only discordant note in the beautiful morning.

  Not only the beautiful dark woman named Sersy with her tiny bag containing a few rags had joined the march to Vyborg, but also the Prince of Vyborg. He wanted to take advantage of the opportunity to return home escorted and in peace. Holaf approached the Dragon, who was intent on riding proudly at the head of the group and asked him:

  "My War Master, how are you?"

  "Well, my King, I took only a single blow to the shoulder," the number three politely replied.

  "How many opponents were there?" asked Holaf curious about the details and eager for war stories.

  "Only four, all on horseback!" replied the Dragon Head with serious, impassive false modesty.

  Holaf smiled pleased, but insisting:

  "Four you said? And you killed all of them, my warrior?"

  "Certainly, my Lord! First the horses, then the knights," the Dragon-helmet briefly explained.

  "After the victory, did you cover the corpses with foliage at the edge of the road?" Holaf enquired, with a light in his eyes like someone who sees his son doing something admirable.

  "No, my King!" the Dragon answered dryly, adding an explanation after a pause: "After the battle I couldn't leave the bodies there. It was too close to the brothel, too easy to deduce where we would go. I was forced to drag them one by one to the place where we were first attacked."

  "Magnificent strategy, son, to hide a stone in the gravel of a river!" The great Nordic King congratulated him with satisfaction, adding finally: "You have done us a great service, my War Master. Your action will certainly be told all through history as you are destined to perform great deeds."

  The third rune was rarely flattered, so he did not have a correct answer ready. His attention at that moment seemed not so much aimed at becoming a myth, but rather at becoming a liberator of women.

  "My King, what if Sersy's master will not release her, even on your request?" asked the Dragon of his Sovereign.

  Holaf looked at him, passed a hand over his chin, and exclaimed:

  "Don't think about it for now, he won't say no! And if he does, he'll receive a Royal kicking, until he changes his mind. I'm still the powerful Lord of the North!"

  On the horizon, a plume of smoke could be seen rising rapidly and changeably, right in the direction of the ford on the Quiet River.

  High asked the young Boris:

  "Can you see the smoke on the horizon in the direction of Vyborg? My Prince, am I seeing correctly or should we expect the worst?"

  "Rest assured, my King!" Prince Boris answered, with a confused expression on his face, like someone who is suddenly woken by a loud noise. "As usual, our soldiers keep large braziers burning, even during the day in this cold period. It is probably the brazier of the watchtower on the bridge."

  The bridges in the Empire of the United Men were rare because of the fear of barbarian invasions. Few had been wanted and they were always well protected, entrusted to the guards of loyal Lords. The strategy of keeping few fordable points was questionable but ancient. All the Emperors agreed to wait before building new ones at the expense of the convenience of transporting goods or armies. The lack of bridges had often lengthened the march of armies, to the point that they did not arrive in time when they were needed to quell threats. Many of the bloodiest invasions, narrated by grandparents to their children and grandchildren, happened because of this lack of bridges. But since all the money from tributes was used to the embellishment Titan, no Emperor ever had to worry about where to use the money saved in that way or whether it would be wise to build more crossings.

  The low mumbling and bubbling of the river flow became louder at every step. They began to see weeping willows, shaking their long, bare branches at every blast of winter wind. The skeletons of alders moved in time. Further, towards the banks of the river, entire sections of the banks were covered with green rushes, dancing sinuously at the will of the wind.

  The slender soaring watchtower stood on a natural island formed in the riverbed, that divided
into two branches. Across both branches of the river was a long and sturdy bridge with both ends able to be raised.

  "Stop, strangers!" shouted a voice from the tower. "You are in the Realm of Vyborg. What are your intentions?"

  The group stopped and it was Boris who advanced proudly:

  "I am Boris Morozov, son of Demitry, Lord of Vyborg! Lower the bridge, we're in a hurry!"

  They saw Vyborg's armigers running towards the winches. It was easy to see how much force they needed to turn the mechanism that lowered the heavy bridge on the west bank. A soldier with a long greying beard approached. The man wore a light steel-coloured, scale armour, under which bright blue padding could be seen. His head was protected by an armet with the visor up so as not to appear aggressive. His face, marked by wrinkles, was reassuring. He had a big unkempt grey moustache and big eyes with a good-natured look. A long double-headed iron mace hung from his neck, like a fashionable scarf more suitable for court wear.

  "Good morning, my prince!" exclaimed the reassuring armiger prostrating himself. "Please cross over the bridge so that the ramp can be freed as soon as possible. We need to close it.

  High did not waste time and climbed up immediately after Boris, followed by the whole cavalcade. They moved slowly to the centre of the bridge having no fear of ambushes, as Vyborg was a good ally of the Emperor.

  A middle-aged man came down from the watchtower at the base of the bridge. He had a round face, deep brown eyes and a freshly shaved beard. He was richly dressed with a beautiful shiny green jacket and ochre coloured pants. He also wore a floppy cap on his head, ochre with long peacock feathers. No weapon hung from that man's belt, only a large bag of natural leather, in which he placed the payments for crossing the bridge.

  "Welcome, my beautiful young prince! Did you have a good stay at the brothel?" His manner was obsequious as the subject was delicate.

  "Certainly, dear Master of the Gate. Only unforgettable moments are spent at my brothel!" the young Boris replied, singing the praises of his commercial activity, before giving an order: "Have the east bridge lowered, Master of the Gate. The King awaits us at the palace!"