TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  The great dark Dragon approached Sersy without saying a word and knelt down offering one knee as a step, making it easier for black beauty to mount her horse with less effort.

  "Thank you, my knight," said the dark miserable beauty her trembling voice betraying her fear.

  "You are welcome," the third northern rune answered, before leaving, to lead the expedition.

  The thunder echoed resounding throughout the valley, preceded by such bright lightning flashes that they disturbed the traveller’s eyes. It looked like sparks coming from a divine duel. The wind howled furiously, deafening the soldiers, hissing through the slits of their helmets. The dialogue between elements of nature lasted for many hours, until, tamed, the sky stopped cursing all men. The satisfied wind retreated, leaving a trail of broken trees and plants torn apart as if it had been merely a playful demonstration.

  It was late afternoon and for endless hours the landscape had appeared so similar to the tired eyes of the Kings that it gave the illusion of staying still, inert in the same place. Then something unexpected occurred: immediately after a slight rise they could see a large dense sinuous tower of black smoke.

  "High, look up in the sky," Holaf said, almost astounded.

  "I noticed, my brother. I hope it is the result of lightning," hypothesized the hopeful and optimistic God-Slayer.

  "I don't think so, my Sovereigns, a few moments ago nothing was rising in the sky. Perhaps the chimneys of a village are producing such a lot of smoke," suggested the Dragon in a subtle voice not wishing to raise false alarms.

  "We will soon discover, my good friends. From here our path passes that way without any other possibility. We must go over that he hill," Holaf replied resigned to the possibility of inconvenience.

  "My King, what if we used the same tactics as we did in the woods, where we found the survivors of Cernyj Les?" suggested Boris, always lurking like a bird of prey, unable to stay silent.

  "My boy, we're all too tired for such manoeuvres, so we're going to try another tactic," replied High smiling, "we're going to send just one man, one volunteer and you, Prince, can't go!"

  "If there must be a volunteer, I would like to go!" the daring Dragon's Head instinctively offered. He did not mind the prospect of giving battle at all.

  "So be it, my Champion!" replied Long Sword proud of his indomitable warrior. "But for safety take the horn, a long call in case of threat, three short blasts, if all is clear."

  The warrior vanished quickly between the rocks, like a black shadow, and soon disappeared completely from the sight of his companions. He bent forward watchfully to avoid surprises, like a silent snake, slithering over the grass. The third Master of the War crouched down on the top of the hill, among the brush. His head was without a helmet, as it would be too easily seen. However, the distance was too great and all he could see through the heathland was the smoke and a pile of unidentified things burning at the edge of the road, by now completely disintegrated.

  The third rune of Trondheim checked the rise by carefully inspecting every crack, bush or cave in a maniacal search for a target to annihilate with his wrathful war hammer. The warrior slipped into the vegetation again taking advantage of a large crack that split the side of the rise. He descended the hill, approaching to observe just what the joyful flames were wrapping themselves around. Finding nothing dangerous for his companions, he pulled out his horn and blew three vigorous blasts then sat down and waited for his Sovereigns to come.

  The fire burned proudly, greedily devouring carcasses of lurid Orcs, six to be exact, and more precisely, they were all explorers. This information could be understood because of the small size of the charred bodies, which emitted an acrid, dense and viscous odour. The smoke was towering high in the sky, returning to the ground in large grey ash petals, floating and ephemeral to the touch. On one side of the road there were three small humps, similar to the piles of earth, made into garden beds ready for sowing. Each of the humps had a piece of bark on top, stripped from a nearby tree, each tree proud of its wounds shown by the whiteness of the freshly uncovered wood. On each bark, the same inscription was found: "Here lies one who in his youth was taken by the horrendous invaders."

  "Tombs of children," the Dragon exclaimed icily, watching bewitched as the flames consumed the Orcs.

  "At least we have indisputable proof of a human reaction. Someone is hunting them with fruitful results!" exclaimed the Lord of the North with a surge of optimism.

  "They were overwhelmed by a cavalry charge. Note the signs of the hooves still clearly visible in the wet soil," noted the God-Slayer.

  The smell was so penetrating and the vision so raw that the refined ladies following the soldiers looked away.

  "Come, my Princess, hurry and do not turn back. It is not a sight for delicate flowers," the Bear Head invited them to pass the bonfire.

  The Lord of the East also went past, as it was impossible to search through bodies looking for clues.

  "What do you think, my brother?" asked Holaf directly, seeing High more thoughtful than usual.

  "My dear Holaf, I'm worried, these beasts have found death far from the borders. I wonder, what has happened to my Lords and my family, if so far within my lands there are traces of enemies," the God-Slayer confided with the cold fear of good father and righteous Sovereign.

  "We must continue, brother. But if you feel the need to separate and return home by the shortest route, please take half of the men at least until the you reach the first city loyal to you," Holaf replied, fully understanding what it meant to fear for loved ones and being in a state of uncertainty.

  "Dear brother, I can't, I've given you my word and I'll accompany you as far as you need!" High replied rapidly swallowing his bitter fears.

  "As you wish, but feel free of such promises. We are brothers of the sword, and for you I would do anything," answered stoic Holaf.

  The God-Slayer took a good deep breath and shook his head strongly, as if to drive out unpleasant thoughts, then walked on, leading the way.

  Time flowed like water under a bridge. The mountains of the East seemed to come closer and closer. Now the Back of the Dragon mountain range sank lower into the ground gradually becoming only a fine line on the horizon. Victory Plain was flat and wide before them, wrapped around the sacred river Vhola in a long and warm embrace, as it flowed on its quiet descent to the southern seas. This area of land was crossed and divided by a mountain chain with the evocative name of Heap of Bones. It was the second chain of mountains in the east, a range of lesser height and extension, but no less treacherous than the colossal outer chain. This last impassable barricade on the eastern border consisted of two mountainous formations, called the great chain Vertebrae of the Titans and the chain of the Tombstones of the Giants.

  The group soon noticed the flowering of new plumes of dense black smoke, not unlike the first one encountered a short time before.

  "The situation would seem to be serious, judging by the number of fires colouring the sky," commented the Dragon, looking at the horizon.

  "I want to believe they are all pyres of Orcs, indicating that the beasts have been eliminated, freeing these lands," answered High pretending to be optimistic.

  The sun emerged from the grey clouds, changing the climate and giving mild warmth to the chilled travellers. The sad spectacle was bitter company: there were still many burning piles of monsters and unnamed tombs with modest and pitiable gravestones. Small piles of unburned corpses were also seen. These had sometimes just been searched by unknown hands, which had not even had time to bury any victims found the nets the Orcs used as baskets carry food.

  "Such haste does not indicate anything pleasant. We have gone from happy victorious fires and worthy burials to the discovery of only carcasses, covered in black blood, abandoned as a mere banquet for the crows," High expressed his ideas with such anger that made him tighten his fists, not understanding what was happening to the whole Kingdom.

  "You are right, my brother, e
verything seems to have deteriorated quickly. The meaning of these gloomy omens escapes us, despite our commitment to follow them. Let's be heartened by thinking like Godwin: he would see in every burnt or rotten Orc only the irrefutable manifestation of the clear will of the One God," Holaf strengthened himself with these words, although discouraging sights persisted.

  The Victoria Plain, once flourishing, vital and rich in game, had now turned into a bowl full of death. By now hundreds of strands of dense smoke drew strange drawings in the sky and even more corpses were encountered in a few hours. The earth was often covered by precious red human blood, indicating the price that each miserable victory cost.

  They finally arrived, tired and disgusted by the penetrating smell of decomposition mixed with the acrid bouquet of the fires, cloaked by time, near the sacred river Vhola. The warriors and their captains had imagined an ideal scenario. Going by meteorological observations, the river should have been calm and emerald green, but it was not so. Holaf and High were amazed to see the river was a disturbing red colour: it looked like a stream that had had a pig had been butchered on its banks. At that point the bed of the mighty river seemed wide as far as the horizon, wide enough to fit a series of islands and islets in its bed. The red river seemed like a painting, not only because of its unusual colour, but also because of the unnatural calm of its flow. It looked like stagnant water, not a ripple, a fish or an insect apparently disturbed the quiet of the big watercourse.

  The plants on the riverbanks, usually green and luxuriant, lay dry and dying, whilst the water weeds, usually numerous, had almost vanished, and the few remaining were a strange purple colour. Even the trees were no longer reflected in the sick red mirror. They were covered in unusual lesions, due perhaps to contact with the strange water. Long greenish, mucous and foul-smelling threads were flowing from the bare branches; similar liquids were boiling horridly in open wounds on the trunks and branches. The wonderful smell of grass and essential plant oils, once dominant, had vanished giving way to the violence of the new terrifying smells.

  "What kind of demonic sorcery could have created such horrors," demanded a shocked Vyborg soldier.

  The knight, who was an amateur fisherman, went down to the shore that sloped gently and low to the tortured water. The man shook his head, took a stick and without thinking threw it into the river. The branch, instead of floating, as nature would prefer, sank like a stone.

  "But what the hell has happened to the river?" Boris burst out.

  "It's impossible!" exclaimed a knight frightened by events.

  "It's a curse," commented another soldier in a low voice.

  "But let's not speak of heresies! The stick was certainly rotten and full of earth, so it filled with water and sank," said the Commander of the knights of Vyborg firmly in an attempt to restore order.

  Other sticks were thrown into the water, but none floated for more than a couple of seconds. They were all completely swallowed up by the swollen waters.

  "What is our plan of action, my Kings?" asked the Dragon, also baffled by the sight of this phenomenon.

  The two Sovereigns didn't even have the time to understand what was happening, when a silly knight, driven by foolishness, threw a heavy trunk into the river, causing large splashes of water. The fluid tongues lengthened, thinning in the air, like the whip of a lion tamer, ending up all over the warrior's legs. He began swearing, because he had gotten wet, turned around touching his clothes while being mocked by his companions.

  "Soldiers, do not act without thinking. We are still in the presence of a new and hidden phenomenon," the Lord of the East reproached them, very unhappy.

  The laughter quickly died down, as did the imprecations of the foolish soldier. The wet knight took some uncertain steps and his face became serious, giving slight grimace. The man continued to eye his hands silently as if he were amazed. Pieces of armour fell from his hands giving a metallic tinkling as they landed on the ground. On top lay the shin guards, showing unusual signs of corrosion. The silence was filled with cries of pain. The man jumped about waving his hands, attacked by invisible flames, attracting the attention of his companions. The natural reaction was to look for water to soothe the burning, but a companion intervened putting the wounded man on the ground. A flow of blood was now released from his agitated hands like a fountain in macabre bad taste. His voice became weaker and weaker, and more and more shrill and sharp, driven by pain beyond human endurance.

  "Help me! Help me, please," the mad man shouted, wriggling on the ground, while his hands turned into a bleeding mush, followed by his legs now with their bones exposed in a single fatal destiny.

  "Men, it's acid!" the Commander shouted, "stay away, that’s an order!

  Long sword, ignoring the danger came closer trying to understand better, but nothing useful could be done anymore, since neither steel nor bone had resisted, everything turning into a lake of blood. The poor soldier had stopped shouting perhaps because he died or simply fainted from the pain. Very little of him remained hidden chilling, the minds of his fellow soldiers.

  "Soldier, take off your armour," King Holaf ordered in a strong voice to the knight who had come to the rescue, touching his dying companion.

  Rapidly warrior obeyed, throwing everything to the ground. Carefully observing, he saw both on the glove and on the part of the shin guard that had come into contact with the wet man, there were clearly visible marks on the steel.

  "How is it possible to turn the whole river into acid," the knight asked, frightened, no longer green because he had no armour.

  "I have no idea, son, but it is certainly not the work simply of men," replied the Lord of the North, worried and thoughtful.

  "My King, look! It's not acid, but deadly tiny red beasts!" the Dragon shouted, the only one so unconcerned or brave to get close enough to notice some very small creatures the size of grains of sand at work, moving frantically on the steel plates of the glove.

  Holaf and High examined the object in dismay. Boris also exposed himself to the risk, but once he had seen it, ran away far away, like a cat caught off guard, and protested:

  "I will not cross the river."

  "None of us will cross the river, Prince! To die that way, when another way exists, would be a waste and a sacrilege," answered High looking at the puzzled Lord of Trondheim reasoning to himself.

  "Mouth of the Dead?" asked the puzzled Dragon.

  "I'd rather swim than cross the Mouth of the Dead," Long Sword replied quickly.

  "What is unusual about this place, that is so bad, apart from its name," said Boris, who had never left Vyborg.

  "Prince, it is a narrow passage, dug over a deep crevasse, where the river Vhola disappears so as to cross the mountains and then emerges east of the mountain chain called Heap of Bones. No one, neither armies nor merchants, has ever travelled this path without losing the dearest things they possessed," King High eloquently explained.

  Boris, however, stared at the God-Slayer with eyes wide and mouth ajar, a typical totally absent expression, immediately appeared on the face of blonde Boris.

  "Sorry, I don't understand! If they lose their treasures and their goods, it doesn't seem to me the end of the world!" the young man mumbled, leaving the two Sovereigns speechless and earning himself acid comments from the escort knights.

  "Boris, we're not playing! When you wake up, how many dead will you still have to see!" the Lord of the North cried furiously, interrupted by the more measured King High, capable of greater patience and armed with a good heart:

  "I am pleased to find you as you used to be, prince. With all the tactical diligence shown at the village, the killing of the beast and the rest, your father might have accused us of having replaced you!" the Lord of the East took a breath and explained again in a simple and concise manner: "It is called Mouth of the Dead because of the tragic end that looms over all those passing through these places. No one is saved, they all die."

  The prince objected:

  "Bu
t if everyone dies, how do we know about the danger of the place?"

  High looked at Holaf punching the air and realized that he was alone in the task of making the blond prince see reason. No help would come from the King of Trondheim.

  Unexpectedly it was Sersy who intervened to help the God-Slayer:

  "My Prince, we know of the death of all those who decided to take the horrendous step, because none of the unfortunates ever returned from such places, nor did they ever reach their destination, if the path chosen has meant a transit through the Mouth of the Dead."

  "Aaah, now I understand! I thank you kind Sersy for your detailed explanation," replied Boris with regal grace while others mocked and disagreed.

  The Lord of the North his anger soothed looked at King High and to ease the tension he suggested:

  "From now on Sersy will be the communications officer with Boris, because she seems to speak a clearer language to the prince!"

  The God-Slayer gave a smile, and then approached the King of the North asking:

  "What are we going to do, brother, are we going to try our luck?"

  Holaf shook his head and offered his ideas in a low, serious voice:

  "I would prefer to march east, passing over the bridges of Tulsky: ancient, solid and well protected, and then head north stopping at the Black Portal, where we shall say goodbye only temporally. Then destiny leads me towards the Karn pass, beyond which I will turn the march towards Midgard."

  "If we had time, I would fully support your plan but, my brother, the path you have indicated is a too long for the time we have. So I'm afraid fate has decided for us," replied the God-Slayer.

  "Dear High, let's not challenge the Gods! There is no proof that we are late," replied Holaf, trying to dissuade his brother in arms from embarking on a journey to death.

  "Lord of the North, Orcs are wandering in the heart of the Kingdom, rivers become murderers, and infernal beasts descend the slopes to snatch and kill. What other demonic monsters would you like to see, before accepting the idea that the hour is late," he asked with calm resolution and a veiled of reprimand for the Lord of the East.