The cry of the third Nordic rune echoed proud and powerful through the air, as he raised his arms to the sky, running against a fiery background towards his companions, who were still being threatened by virulent claws. The executioner became a prey when all the soldiers resumed the fight, carried away by the example of their paladins. Also the God-Slayer, wounded and limping, threw himself into the fray, delivering a splendid blow to the side of the animal intent on biting off and chewing the head of a green knight.
Other blades wreaked havoc on the shaggy black mantle, but it was the most unexpected blade that almost by chance stuck in the eye of the beast. Driven by the unlikely will of its own, the icy steel wielded by Boris stuck precisely into the mirrored eye of the beast as it struggled. The sharp cusp sank into the bulb, causing it to leak out blood and other fluids onto the pallid cheek. The blow was not able to pierce the skull, and did not go through the bone of the ocular cavity, which stopped the sword. Boris, clinging firmly to the weapon, was shaken and lost his grip. He was thrown like a rag in the wind ending up landing on two friendly soldiers dragging them down with him.
The abomination tried to remove the foreign object with its leg, giving yelps and shaking its muzzle strongly. The blade of the God-Slayer beat with force on the flat end of the pommel of Boris's weapon, like a hammer on a wedge. This decreed the end of the bloody incursions of the beast. Only the first creature to reveal itself had not dared to enter into battle. All the while he had continued his menacing march around the huts. The soldiers, driven by the joy of victory, careless of strategies or anything else wise, ran screaming into the assault in random order and closing in quickly on the hairy beast. But the creature slipped away and disappeared into the shadows from where he came, leaving only an echo of his roars as a bait to attract victims.
High injured and in pain had sat on his trophy and watched Holaf, still vigorous but visibly worried, next to the number one and three runes, who had stayed beside the damsels. Throughout the event Tyra, Sersy and Elisabet had been sitting in a circle, close each other, with their eyes closed and almost paralyzed by terror. Even now, with the cries of men echoing away, they didn't dare to move, except for the hysterical tremors of the beautiful Princess of South Winter.
Holaf began to open all the visors of the fallen hoping in his heart not to see the blond hair of Boris. Eight green soldiers were lying motionless on the ground, so battered that they no longer seemed to be men. Four others were severely wounded, but still breathing, tired and suffering. The ground had turned red. Everywhere around on the ground there were still shreds of meat and limbs on display. Splashes of blood had disrespectfully landed on the beautiful new mantles of the ladies.
"Dragon, my brave one, do you still have any energy?" asked King Holaf with a worried look.
"Certainly, my King, for a thousand more of these pieces of shit!" The third Master of Trondheim responded with a heavy breath, not standing on ceremony.
"Can you find Prince Boris for me among those fools without getting yourself killed, my Champion?" the Lord of the North asked.
The immediate and concise response of the third Nordic rune was:
"It shall be done!" Rapidly the Dragon picked up his shield, checked his axe and trusty war hammer, and then plunged silently between the wooden huts.
"That man is a true Master of War, my brother!" High commented. He was poised between admiration and gratitude, while holding up his blood-soaked arm.
"You're right, my brother. But now healing your injuries is our priority!" Holaf answered shortly. Turning to the women he urged them to help: "My dear Ladies, I am sorry to hurry you, but King High is in need of wise care immediately and not the rough field bandages I am capable of."
The good-hearted elderly Lady rose and hurried to the aid of the God-Slayer, having learned the practice of emergency sutures in her youth.
In the rationally planned village the search for the beast, which had evaded death still continued. No shadow was overlooked, no corner avoided inspection, but the path the quadruped had taken was not found. The rapid searching eyes of the Dragon's Head reached a small group of three noisy soldiers intent on piercing every shadow with their long weapons.
"Is your prince with you?" the big warrior asked roughly, but the negative answer forced him to continue street by street and one shadow after another.
The searcher came across two other Vyborg soldiers: back-to-back they turned on one spot, terrified. They had lost all enthusiasm generated by the killings.
"Men, have you seen Boris? King Holaf wants him!" the third warrior thundered, but again his expectations were disappointed. The Dragon, limping because of his wound, headed to where a commotion attracted some of the men.
"Soldiers, I'm looking for the Prince of Vyborg. The Lord of the North wants to see him! Who has seen him?" He asked, short of breath. But they didn’t hear the Dragon's Head because the troops were intent on stabbing a great pile of humid hay, under which, it was feared, the hellish being they sought was concealed.
"I saw him go south with one of your companions! I think it's the one with the Cat’s Head!" Andor disrespectfully replied.
The Dragon's Head did not give the young man a single glance, but walked in the direction indicated. Not even for a warrior like him was it pleasant to go on reconnaissance alone. His heart beat in his temples and his thigh gave him a lot of pain. Thoughts crowded and distracted him. The Dragon was reminded of harsh truths by a deep gurgling of dubious origin in the narrow streets between the huts. They all looked the same in the gloomy night. The warrior peered around the corner of a house and saw the awful beast feeding on the body of a soldier who was missing a limb and had his head split in two. It was dripping with blood and what remained of brain matter. The body cracked and swung about with every bite of the assailant. Its hind legs were sunk into the belly of a second soldier also killed without any mercy.
As the third rune watched, thinking about how to act, he heard a crack behind him. Rapidly, the warrior turned around covering himself with his shield, but his half-closed eyes and harsh expression found Andor the Rusty in front of him. The Dragon nodded to the boy to stay silent, while he looked round the corner again to verify the tragic situation. Andor also peered around and grew pale at the bloody scene. He had no time to turn back, when inexplicably the young man felt himself pushed powerfully into the open. The instinctive gesture of the Dragon, while making an intentional noise, exposed the boy to the sight of the monster, who never ever had enough blood. While the four-legged, shaggy-haired quadruped launched a deadly attack on the poor bait, the black-cloaked Dragon slid silently, invisibly into the shadow and preparing for action.
The black heart of the Master of War of the third rune rejoiced to see life expire suddenly, escaping far and fast, as the face of the young man was thrown away by powerful blow that divested it from the skull. When the beast threw itself onto the body, cutting and tearing the body of the boy apart, the man with a depraved soul re-emerged from his shelter, like a shadow, to hit the skull of the beast with both hands on his weapon. It didn't take two, but five blows in rapid succession and meteoric strength to break the bones, smashing the skull. The following sixth and seventh blows were only a show of nerves and adrenaline and did not cause much damage apart from splashes of blood.
The Rapid Dragon tried to look for the body of the blond prince, sinking his hands in the blood of the two soldiers of Vyborg, but neither was Boris. The Prince of Vyborg, however, was present: he had hidden himself under a house and there he had been able to see everything, but astutely he chose only to see the Dragon Head as a heroic threshing machine.
"You are a miracle! Your strength will be matter of legend, as will your exploits!" cried Boris, crawling out of the little black hole where he had hidden.
"Here you are, Prince, King Holaf sent me to bring you back to him," replied the third rune, advancing and helping him to get up. To Boris it felt more like a threat than help so nervous and strong was
the grip of the Dragon on his arm.
"What deeds did you speak of a moment ago, Prince?" asked the Dragon with a hard voice, looking at the corpses of the knights.
"But of course of how you intervened to knock down the beast and save me!" replied Boris concealing his fear with difficulty.
"Andor was stupid, boastful as well as imprecise. If he had inspected the huts correctly, as ordered by King Holaf, one of those monstrosities would have died during the day, giving us the favour of daylight," asserted the powerful Nordic man, looking icily at the young prince.
Boris did not answer, convinced that he was facing his own end, and closed his pale eyes. A tear escaped on his cheek, sliding quickly down his round face. The Dragon heard approaching voices, so he pushed the young prince onto the body of the beast. The third northern rune forcefully grasped the weapon Boris was carrying, then raised it to the sky and lowered it with a mighty thrust, sending the steel into the red flesh of the dead beast. Boris reopened his eyes after having shut them with all his strength and saw the pommel of his sword shivering under his nose.
"Hold onto the sword, quick!" ordered the Dragon's Head, lifting Boris's weight dirty with blood and mud, and then screaming with all his lungs:
"Long live Boris son of Demitry, Prince of Vyborg, Killer of Beasts!"
The green soldiers who came there shouted with joy, raised their prince and brought him in triumph to the King of Trondheim and the Lord of the East. The Dragon followed the procession thoughtfully. The Bear's Head and the Leopard's Head joined the group. The knights immediately made the story their own, telling how Boris had ridden into battle and defeated the demon. A bit like what happens with fishing stories, where even the smallest fish always turns into a titanic opponent.
Boris, young and frightened by his saviour, but above all greedy for glory, did not deny anything but rejoiced nodding, raising his sword to the dark sky, collected and steeped in blood by the third Master. The din of the festive cries of the soldiers beating their blades on their shields after the victory was in contrast with the gloomy mood of King High wounded and King Holaf saddened by the number who died in the battle.
After a few hours of chaos the two gentlemen wanted to know the numbers lost to pay for the victory.
"My King, we have surrendered to death eight knights of the phalanx and two, where Boris became a warrior. One was found lifeless not far off and finally the boy who joined us, he too died badly. The account of the wounded is much less serious. There are only four, all able to fulfil the promise made by our King!" was the reassuring and detailed account of the only surviving Commander of Vyborg, but one of the four wounded.
"Certainly, your value must be recognized, men of Vyborg. You really know how to fight well!" The Lord of the North complimented them, tempering his thoughts.
"I thank you, my King, but the merit of this victory must also go to your wise guidance. If only some of us had been quicker with our pikes, the dead now would be fewer" the Commander answered sincerely.
Those words had a warm effect in the heart of King Holaf, lightening the burden of the twelve victims.
"Are you solid in your command, despite your wounds?" Long Sword wished to reassure himself regarding the state of the wounded Captain.
"As solid as ever , as solid as your guidance will be!," the man replied smilingly.
.
Chapter 17
Alarming edict
Travelling quickly and lightly through the empty moorlands of the Long Plain, Godwin and his escort had not allowed themselves any rest. Entire solar cycles now separated them from the solid walls of Terra. Even the mere memory of the comfort and home-like ease made the hearts of the men of the South overflow with nostalgia. They felt more worn-out and exhausted than their new travel companions.
The sun was high in the sky, but with very little vigour. It barely pierced the uniform blanket of clouds that spread as far as the eye could see. To all this greyness was added a not very edifying haze, white and motionless, resting on uncultivated fields, which were lower down than the road the eighteen wayfarers were travelling.
Cypress trees sprouted here and there from the snow-white smoky blanket, perched on the miserable heights rising up out of the Long Plain. Rows of brambles clung to other plants at the edge of the ditches, greedy for a little height, often creating a green roof above them. Deep canals ran along the road for some distance, occasionally disappearing under dilapidated bridges that had seen no maintenance since time immemorial.
The Long Plain, however, could boast the best road system of the entire Kingdom, with the exception of the Highlands. The surface of the road was made of beaten earth and there was no ditch without a bridge in any corner of that desolate land. This greater interest in the care of the roads was because of the need to provide for the pilgrims travelling to the mountain of the Holy Sepulchres.
The Long Plain stretched from the south of the Vyborg Hills along the entire mountain range, known as the Dragon's Back. The Long Plain was separated from the Beneathathrone Plain by a wedge of green primitive wild forest of dark reputation, referred to by all as the Tendard Forest, name inherited from the first human explorer.
There were many villages dotting the plain, large and small, all inhabited,. The rich and once flourishing town of Varius also extended its dominions along these lands, protecting them from the shadow of the Cordillera of the Beasts. The latter, with its rugged peaks, often snow-covered throughout the year, appearing splendid, but deceptive for the ill prepared and for travellers.
"Sire, we are readying for war, then?" Gotthard asked curiously, anticipating glory and trophies.
"I really hope not, or at least I trust in providence, that we may avoid a campaign lasting many winters," the King of the South cautiously answered with little enthusiasm for the exaltation of the Nordic prince.
"You are legendary and still breathing, which is very unusual! Do not misunderstand my words, your presence is more than welcome, but to my ears it seems there is little enthusiasm in your words. Has your glory offended you?" asked the powerful hammer of Stahldorf once again.
"Exactly, my Prince, I've had enough of glory, after spending my life on the battlefields and blackened my soul with acts, of which few would be proud, but without which I would not have my fame. My only joy and happiness comes from the sight of my children and my wife. I know I have spoken words that you find disgusting, but you are young and have no experience of a family, which is just the opposite of your experience of war. Maybe, if you remember what I have said in ten years, you will understand." King Godwin's tedious but heartfelt response left Prince Gotthard slightly disgusted plunging him into grave silence.
They stopped only the time needed for the horses to rest in a small village along the way. It was made up of a few wooden houses with weak straw roofs. A half-fallen tavern was the only possible choice, offering the innkeeper eighteen hungry guests. The squalid hostelry, with few patrons, smelled like a stable. The dirty wooden tables were smooth, set down but never cleaned since. The portions consoled travellers by their abundance and good flavour. Game was often found at the edge of the Tendard forest, whose dark shadow was populated by mythical and legendary creatures.
The old innkeeper, with her rough and uneducated ways, sat down at the table with her guests. To her eyes they only offered new tales for her to listen to. With her elbows on the table she stared at the knights, who were intent on eating quickly, without grace or ceremony. She took the opportunity to show off:
"My food is good, right? I deserve a place at the Citadel, a place for the rich, not a fetid sewer in the depths of nowhere!"
"The meal was great and the dishes fresh, your cuisine will be praised in the courts of the whole Kingdom," Fulk replied, pleasing the woman.
"Where are you all from?" she asked curiously. She was a gossip-hungry innkeeper.
"A from all over the Empire of the United Men," replied Godwin, certain he had not been recognized.
"Wh
ere does your road lead you, knights?" the innkeeper asked a second question. She was someone who wanted to know at all costs.
"On a pilgrimage to the south, to the mountain of the Holy Sepulchres," Godwin lied, twisting the truth to avoid surprises.
"Are you mercenaries in search of glory? Instead of going to fight the bandits in the south, you should stop and look after the land in the centre," the old woman exclaimed, irritated, stirring everyone's curiosity.
"What mercenaries? What are you talking about," Gotthard asked with his mouth full of stew and fresh bread in his hands.
The old woman stared very seriously at the Prince of Stahldorf, who was not at all intimidated and repeated the question.
"Here few men dressed like you pass by, and everyone goes to be mercenaries. Ask the knights of Varius what the bandits are doing to our land," the innkeeper answered nervously She took a breath, ruminated for a moment and delivered a sensational spit to the floor. "Those colourful beasts steal supplies and money without the slightest hesitation. They hide behind laws invented on the spot, and if anyone opposes them, they are arrested and killed the same day."
There was an exchange of complicit and conscious glances among the eighteen men in arms. Godwin pretending indifference asked:
"But precisely, what do these rogues want from the poor subjects?"
"They are chasing a group hidden in the villages that the Emperor seeks. It seems they are ugly people, aggressive and strongly armed," the woman replied, standing up to remove a parchment affixed to the wall, bearing the description of the bandits.
TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering Page 32