TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

The Devil of Vilniar was a famous fighter, capable of remarkable feats, even allowing for fable-like heroic nature of some poems that describing his exploits. A man of solid morals, whose word was always to be trusted as were his deeds. Neither had ever been doubted or contradicted.

  "You're very far from home, Devil," Holaf exclaimed.

  Evghenij got up and retorted:

  "My King, you aren’t wandering around in your garden either."

  "What drives you to gallop and fight under the banners of Tulsky?" asked Long Sword, curious to know why a man, master from such distant lands, was there to risk his life.

  "My little duchy near the mountains was attacked by Orcs. My garrison had few swords and even less battle experience, the result was a mere carnage," he said, his eyes full of hatred.

  "Vilniar has fallen! How awful the fate that has overwhelmed you! Duke, I offer you my condolences. Know of the affliction of my heart, full of tears of suffering for your losses," the King of the North expressed heartfelt sorrow at such news.

  "What remains of Vilniar are destroyed houses and fifty-eight people, all women and children, rescued by me and my brave soldiers, dragged from the clutches of those despicable beings," the Devil replied, taking a moment to pause and hold back the tears, his shining eyes ready to fill. "My bride has been snatched from my hands, despite the fact that I have killed countless monsters to defend her. I got nothing more than tears and regrets. For this reason I now fight alongside those who oppose them and do not hide, inactive and blind behind walls of useless stone."

  "My brave Duke, your revenge will be as savage as your mourning has been. I don't want to close my eyes or hide myself. Many will be the carcasses of our enemies, so many that you can rebuild Vilniar with their bones," the usually calm and moderate God-Slayer replied furiously.

  "So if you want to follow us, knights of Tulsky, understand the tragic end of many heroic and valiant Vyborg soldiers who have fallen in battle. Their bodies were blessed by the loving flames of respect and protected from destruction by crows and nocturnal animals. We will not be able to guarantee the same fate to those who, in the days to come, will die for the good of all," the Lord of Trondheim explained succinctly and brutally in a sad voice. He did not like the idea of wasting lives, nor did he adopt shortcuts to cleanse his soul because of difficult choices.

  The great Nordic King felt responsible for the victims of his plans, but he knew that he had done everything possible to save precious blood, counting on repaying his losses with the vital fluids of the defeated enemies. Revenge for men, especially for those who lived among the snow glaciers of the north, was an excellent stimulus, as well as glory and no less the chance of reaching Valhalla.

  All of Tulsky's men filled the thinned ranks of the two Kings marching toward Midgard, perhaps tired of defeating groups of Orcs explorers and then burning their corpses.

  "Brave Arian, what kind of Orcs did you met in the Victory Valley," the Lord of the East enquired, eager to know more about the enemy.

  "My Sire, they are almost always green or mud-coloured with small pointy heads. We usually classify them as Green Skins. But, my King, take into account our lack of attention when observing those disgusting beasts. The tactic we used was limited to a heavy charge to overwhelm them and, if necessary, in a nice second pass to be certain of their departure. After such a treatment not much remains and often only black blood can be seen. If we have time, we burn them, but they smell so terrible, and nobody likes to have too much to do with their carcasses," Arian answered sincerely.

  "So you've never tried to gather information," High asked slightly disappointed that they missed such an opportunity.

  "My King, Prince Oleg, son of Kiril, tried to collect information, but the Orcs bite, if they can't find a better way to kill you. The Prince of Tulsky had such a number of deaths that he chose to stop trying to capture them. In fifteen days of patrols I lost only one knight fighting the enemy. The good Oleg had two hundred and fifty dead and over one hundred wounded, including Oleg himself during the same period," Arian explained his reasons, adding numbers and truly traumatic tales.

  "The Prince of Tulsky is therefore wounded. What is his condition now?" the God-Slayer immediately asked.

  "Blind in one eye and missing three fingers from his left hand. Fortunately, the Orc has bitten him on his weak hand, so the injury will not mean a heavy handicap," said Arian, reassuring the Lord of the East, worried about the adverse fate, suffered by the son of one of his nobles.

  "My King, three days ago near the mountains where we are now heading, we overwhelmed twelve Orcs. Rummaging through their wooden armour we realized that we had perhaps killed some Brown wrinkled ones," Evghenij reported in a disgusted voice.

  Holaf approached the three knights, wanting to report on everything regarding the unexpected turn of events in the Kingdom, also wanting to hear every minute detail. Both Sovereigns were aware that the Black Orcs often imposed submission on the Brown wrinkled Orcs who were more backward and smaller, but above all, not as strong or as intelligent. For centuries members of this breed were little more than slaves, subjected by the larger but similar creatures, and were used as meat for slaughter, sacrificed as pawns, sent to the front line to test the defences of enemy forces.

  "The Brown wrinkled Orcs have never been seen over our borders. They are too weak to cross the mountains," commented doubtfully Long Sword.

  "You're right, my brother, as usual. If they're found and killed near the villages along the border they have crossed the defences. They are too stupid to make plans and sneak right into the Kingdom," High replied, showing the Northern demon that he had understood what he was trying to say.

  "My Sovereigns, if I understand correctly, you are suggesting the intervention of more powerful and hidden forces, capable of concealing these beings from our sight and bringing them to the heart of the Empire. So you rule out the possibility, however remote, of deep infiltration only by this disgusting enemy?" asked the Commander of Tulsky.

  "Sire Arian, have you ever seen one face to face?" King Holaf answered a question with a question.

  "No, my King, as a target I've always made myself as mobile as possible. I can't count on having the strength of a Nordic man," Arian almost apologized in response.

  "Better for you," High exclaimed, having duelled with many colourful muzzles without ever feeling at ease.

  "If you had had the experience, you would have noticed immediately the horrific and nauseating smell of rottenness, coming from the ulcers, proliferating in the folds of their skin. Then you would have noticed the rough clubs, with which they would have tried to kill you by smashing your bones. You couldn't help noticing the vacuous look in their little green sunken dull eyes, manifestation of an intellect so small that they do not understand which direction you are going until you are slipping beside them," Holaf described with care his feelings, experienced years ago during his first duel with Brown wrinkled Orcs.

  Luckily, these enemies were simple to knock down, but their strength lay in their numbers, just as nature has shown in many examples.

  "So, King Holaf, these creatures seem as stupid as trolls!" exclaimed the Devil of Vilniar smiling.

  "Perhaps even a little more so, but just like their cousins they should never be underestimated," warned the God-Slayer.

  The clouds in the sky passed by, first white and vaporous and then dark and neurotic, giving off flashes, the thundering voice resounding. The rain returned to delight the group of heroic soldiers soaking them to their souls.

  "If it continues to rain like this, I'll grow gills on my neck like sharks," joked Boris riding next to Sersy.

  "I will become a mermaid then!" exclaimed the dark beauty continuing the innocent game.

  "No, Milady, if you turn yourself into a mermaid, you certainly won’t be able to ride a horse and you would fall and end up trampled underfoot!"

  "But you, if you turned into a shark, how would you ride?" asked Tyra, who was following them, h
olding the kitten tightly to her chest with its soaked nose poking out of the ermine hood.

  "I hadn't thought about it, I presume I would fall too and end up with the horses trampling me too," Boris replied, reddening for having made the ladies laugh.

  The Dragon at the head of the column often turned and fleetingly looked at his beloved. Everything about her showed uneasiness and embarrassment; she never allowed their glances to meet, appearing so distant that he could no longer approach her, yet she was magnetic. The black beauty attracted the glances and thoughts of the impetuous man of the north, but not only him: one of Tulsky's knights had been fluttering around her for some time, like a vulture to carrion. The stranger was looking for somewhere to place a ladder and penetrate the wall of restlessness oppressing the smiles of the young woman.

  Restlessness and anger violently shook the thoughts of the knight of the shaggy mantle, so that his right hand had a visible tremor, a movement long present in the limb of the third Nordic rune. The hand jumped and twitched making a continuous metallic beating noise, shaking the plates of his gauntlet.

  "My brother in arms, stop delaying and go there and talk for a moment with Sersy," the Bear's Head gave his advice, to which he obtained a dry ‘No!’"

  "I will replace you at the head of the group. Even just an exchange of words would help you. Your soul gushes out as black as smoke. It would cover an orphanage in flames," again the fourth Nordic rune made a suggestion without the slightest effect.

  Chapter 22

  Tightrope over the abyss

  They revealed their presence as tiny white spots, as graceful as dancers; icy and slow they floated down, blown by the wind. They piled up on the ground, on the mud and on the rocks. The snow was not really unexpected, given the flat, grey uniform clouds covering the sky and also considering the unfriendly chill in the air. Their breath was visible from a distance, their noses as red as their cheeks heated by warm their breath, channelled by stiff cupped hands. The flat, curved road began to rise sharply, changing its direction in sharp sudden spirals. The path, increasingly vertical within the inhospitable mountains, upset the morale of men changing each stone that moved into an alarm for the troop. The strong wind, a characteristic of the peaks of the Heap of Bones, certainly did not help to soothe their souls by making every minor noise sound like the din of a battle.

  The fresh snow covered everything with soft candour, deceiving them, hiding hollows, or worse, crevasses; in return, it filled the eyes of the girls and the young and carefree Boris with magical light. Maybe that candid mantle gave pleasure to those who found themselves at war by accident, taking away their dark thoughts for a while. But for the professional soldiers it created a difficult problem. The ground became insecure, slowing down the march and forcing the riders go on foot so as not to risk the precious legs of their quadruped companions. The dry snowflakes whirling in the air made the task of the advance patrol complex, brutally shortening both the range of action and the view. The biting cold transferred itself mercilessly to the mighty steel plates, transforming the armour into iceboxes, causing only deep shivers.

  The five warriors of the north, wrapped in their large coats, forced the slow caravan on, urging their companions not to give up, not give pleasure to the giants of Jotun: mythological beings always ready to freeze those who abandoned themselves to the ice. The howling wind lashed the snow into the faces of the intrepid travellers, while the perfidious ice made the journey treacherous. Its silent appearance started to make each stone shiny and deceptive as the dark hours came upon them.

  High saw a strange and ill-concealed movement on the eastern salient, uncertainly, he called, with difficulty:

  "Holaf!"

  "Tell me, brother," Long Sword moved up beside him.

  "On our right, about a third of the way up, something or someone is watching us," whispered High to the ear of the mighty Nordic King so that no one could hear of this discovery.

  The Long Sword brought his hand to his mouth, faking a yawn, and turned quickly toward the indicated point, but the snow and wind hampered his vision.

  "High, I can’t see anything. I won't ask you, if you're sure. Knowing you, what you say is true. It only remains to decide how to deal with the situation," Holaf replied, whispering furtively to avoid spreading fear.

  "Going down there with this snow is not something men can do. We will continue a few more meters, keeping close and watchful. We do not have any other choice and I cannot imagine an alternative plan," replied the Lord of the East.

  The march continued at an exhausting pace. The ladies could not keep up the pace. They had such difficulty, that they had to be carried on more than one occasion. The Bear's Head offered himself with joy, well reciprocated, to bear the slender weight of the beautiful Nordic princess. She was in extraordinarily high spirits, given the arduous conditions. Boris took on the task of helping the Lady Elisabet with great kindness. She was grumbling like beans bubbling in a pot. Sersy asked for help from the knights of the Black Portal, already weighed down by many arrows, who politely refused, not wishing to incur the wrath of their violent ally. The black beauty complained of her misfortune, hoping to receive the joyful support of some knight. The one closest to her, hearing her subdued dissatisfaction replied smiling:

  "My Lady, I would be delighted, but it is an honour to which I am not equal. You should ask for the much more robust support!"

  The Dragon slowed down his pace to help the Lady with long dark hair, but his intention was hindered by the arrival of the knight of Tulsky, as slimy as a garden snail, who offered his arm to the Lady without respect for the warrior. Sersy, without a moment of hesitation, clung like a bird of prey to the back of a newly captured wild rabbit. The Dragon’s big smile gave way to a plume of white breath from the lips of the third northern rune. He was so nervous that he spun round rapidly shaking the air around him with a sudden threatening movement of his arm. Then he left again to take lead of the troops.

  Holaf as a spectator could only take part morally. He could not intervene and remove a man from a Lady of the age of consent, just because he wished to do so. Nor could he have meddled without risking belittling the powerful War Master of the third rune.

  "New problems?" asked High also wishing to favour the warrior, to whom he owed his life.

  "For the moment it doesn't seem so!" The Lord of the North answered, relieved and observing the Lady at the back of the column he added: "But, my brother, if other woes were to arrive because of that Lady, I certainly don’t want to be involved. Those who defy the fury of Trondheim pay the consequences."

  "And if it were your warrior who fell?" warned the God-Slayer, annoyed.

  "The Dragon knows what it means to fight, just like the two of us. And if he loses, sooner or later we'll meet him at the table of the Warrior Gods," was the cynical response of King Holaf.

  "Excuse me, my Kings, what troubles are you speaking of? It might be good and useful to hear of them and so avoid them together?" asked Arian, curious to add to the few words, he had heard between a gust of wind and the neighing of a horse.

  The two Sovereigns exchanged a conspiratorial look. Holaf came closer and explained the situation to the valiant Arian, who didn't understand and snorted, saying:

  "So as I take it, the woman is free to decide without having to fear anything and anybody. It is certainly not worth fighting over a woman, however beautiful she may be. Moreover, do not be afraid for my men, they are all trained and dangerous."

  "You, good knight, you are minimising one who appears great not only in his appearance," warned The Lord of the East, full of admiration for number three of the north.

  Arian did not answer as he did not understand these speeches and was convinced of the superiority of the soldiers of Tulsky. A prolonged rumble echoing among the high peaks interrupted all discourse, thought and affectation.

  "What is that?" asked High alarmed.

  "Not of thunder, my friend!" Holaf answered looking around.


  Few things in the world were able to surprise the Long Sword, but he too, at the vision front of his eyes, was silenced. There appeared a narrow ravine carved into the rock; a gigantic slit was torn into the side of the mountain. It was wide and deep, penetrating the flesh of Mother Earth, like the gash left by a huge spear, stuck there during a duel between heavenly bodies. The sacred Vhola River threw itself into this unspeakable chasm without doubt or fear straight into the heart of the underworld, creating the most unimaginable waterfall ever seen. Everything was swallowed up by the black shadows reigning in the abyss. The red waves of blood fell for hundreds of meters bouncing on natural terraces, like depths of hell described in sacred texts. It was these falls that created the echoing thunder, above which no sound survived. The path that the company had travelled until now ended abruptly at the edge of the opening. Only a thin line of dark rock opposed the black whirlpool, creating a passage as wide as the shoulders of a slender man.

  "Here we are at the Mouth of the Dead," the Lord of the North exclaimed with little enthusiasm.

  Huge spurs of rock covered the walls and edges of the abyss, looking like the teeth of a monster. Adding together the rocky teeth and the cavity piercing the earth, the sensation was of being about to walk on the corpse of a giant creature, with its dead jaws spread, which was the explanation of the evocative name of Mouth of the Dead.

  "We'll never cross that tiny bridge," Boris exclaimed, demoralized and shaking with fear. Holaf looked at him sideways, but said nothing. The frank comment, coming from the lips of the young prince, was offered to the wind, while all his companions kept their fears hidden.

  It was necessary to venture twenty metres further down the valley along inaccessible paths that were never used. They descended, helping each other and almost holding their horses in their arms, terrified of the insidious stones. The bold wind blew hard between the dark rocks, screaming and blowing the feeble snowflakes about violently.