TRONDHEIM SAGEN: Earth Shattering

by Andreas Hennen

  The princess did not answer but simply rested her head on the man’s shoulder, on whose knee she was resting. But she was in a thoughtful and very restless mood.

  .

  Chapter 24

  Zubrovka

  The woodland was just a few hundred metres away, still and silent, waiting for its next visitors. The forest of Zubrovka did not offer refreshment or rest under its foliage, nor would it have moved a branch to rescue the knights with their tired backs, tested by their burdensome task. The green leaves had fallen, as had the needles of the pine and fir trees, seen more and more often on the border with the northern territories. The turbid waters, scarlet in colour, had ruined most of the plants in what had once been a green wilderness. No animal moved in or among the bare surviving branches that were dripping with nauseating mucus, which hung horrendously from every plant, tree or shrub. The situation of the bush land was like the vegetation found on the banks of the Vhola River.

  The steeds, spurred to the limit, fled into the skeletal arms of the dying wood. By now they were under heavy fire from the pursuers. Sinister hisses were heard as the arrows arrived in huge numbers, but fortunately the arrows showed little precision. Archery is a strenuous and difficult art, not at all easy for an impetuous and agitated species of beast, such as Orcs, which are incapable of reason and complicated thoughts. The enemy pursuers were not able to allow for the trajectory, the wind and the movement caused by the chase, so they only made holes in the mud with their numerous arrows. Soon, the arrows lost all effectiveness, sticking only in the trees and rarely in the shields, placed for protection on the warrior’s backs. Lucky shots managing to reach a target were more likely to be guided by the hand of an adverse God than by the skill of the archer.

  "Men, the plan is simple, the ladies and the prince must continue with as many horses as possible towards South Winter. This will be their task, while ours will be even more congenial to you: we must massacre all the revolting beasts or at least kill as many as possible," thundered the Lord of the North dismounting from his horse.

  "For Trondheim," shouted the Dragon jumping from his steed and stroking Sersy's tear drenched face.

  "For King Holaf and King High," shouted the Wolf with determination, which was echoed by the Bear Head and the last Master of the War.

  "For all the men who now must safeguard the destiny of many who are unaware of the danger, or the ill-prepared peoples afraid of the tusks looming over their destiny," shouted the Lord of the East, removing his sword and shaking it towards the heavens.

  But no other soldier was willing to shout anything, neither a prayer nor a battle slogan.

  "Go, Boris! Ride as if you had the hounds of hell at your back, which is not an entirely false statement to be honest! Save the three ladies and send the hawks to all the Lords. Make sure to awaken them. It is vital that the preparations for the war begin, because sooner or later those beasts will be clamouring in front of every wall!

  The blond prince, knowing that he could do nothing else, did not reply, and gathered as many reins as he could hold in his hands. He left, followed by the ladies, as fast as the tired horses could manage, between branches and brushwood. Tyra and Sersy often turned to look at the men strategically positioned among the trees in a random order, anguished by the fate of their knights. Even the Dragon and the Bear turned their eyes to their beloveds, while the silhouettes of the horses faded away, hiding among the brown shades of the bush.

  "Today I don't intend to die, I still have to kiss the princess," complained the Bear Head causing the Dragon to smile. He answered cynically:

  "I don't believe it is in anyone's plans to die on this day, but the Gods are watching us and almost never fulfil the plans we hoped for!"

  The avant-garde of Orcs pushed fearlessly into the vegetation, dragged along relentlessly by drooling mastiff-like beasts. Their shaggy bodies trembled continuously and they moved their heads almost as if they were on a pendulum. These beasts kept frantically breathing the stagnant and rotten air, permeating everything found in the shadow of the bare branches with their heavy breath.

  Incredibly, the beasts lost the trail and began to growl and whine, and finally they began howling turning around in circles. The Orcs immediately got tired of waiting and called for help with loud vigorous roars. In a few moments every corner of the forest swarmed with Brown and Green skin Orcs, intent on watching and searching everywhere.

  "If I had known before of the unexpected help offered by the forest, I would certainly never have ordered a halt. But I would never have expected to come across a stench capable of hiding our trail, covering our flight," commented disappointed Holaf, while he was scrutinizing the approaching enemies.

  "My brother, don't upset yourself. You're certainly not a visionary, you are not to blame," comforted High in a whisper also intent on thinking of how to carry out the attack.

  "My King, I can't see the biggest beast," the Dragon pointed out.

  The Commander of the Enemies had not joined the possible ambush. He was clever and hardened by who knows how many duels, so he lead the march to the edge of the forest, with the probable intent of attacking from behind. The situation stagnated like the air of the forest, until an archer of the Black Portal saw the opening for a shot and his finger ready. The bow-string gave its characteristic sound and the hissing of the string, through the air, accompanied the lightning-fast arrow speeding to the target, finished in the eye of an enemy Orc, leading one of the two beasts on a leash. The arrow penetrated inside the skull of the monster right to the feathered end. The Orc lowered its long jaw bristling with tusks, staggered to the right and bowed its head. Its healthy eye turned to the middle of its muzzle and it fell to the ground to the indifference of his companions.

  It was the leashed beast that jumped towards the archer. The metallic sound of the crossbow trigger and the hissing had betrayed him, revealing his position. Breaking branches in its rush, the chained beast gave a massive leap, directed precisely to where the knight was reloading his weapon. Holaf stood in the way with his shield taking the weight of the monster and blocking its infernal claws, which were already longing for weak human flesh. High, as fast as only he could, slipped his sword into the side of the beast wriggling against the shield. The red blade came out the other side. The Devil of Vilniar, moved by desperate plight, came on the run and took the tip of King High's blade pushing it through the flesh with such enthusiasm as to break the ribs of the beast. Bleeding entrails escaped from the large wound, opened in the wiry belly of the assailant, the, pouring out onto the poor panicking archer beneath.

  The clash of weapons and howls attracted the other Orcs into the attack on the Sovereigns. The horrendous, rapid, heedless creatures threw themselves into the fray with their weapons unsheathed, screaming incomprehensible phrases in their chaotic language. The powerful sword of the north stuck proudly and thirstily into the skull of a Brown, which had been too bold, getting stuck between the bones. With his sword trapped, King Holaf kicked at the enemy in an attempt to smash the bones trapping his sword, but was attacked by a large Green Skin, rushing to the Lord of the North, hitting him violently with his big battered rusty axe. Holaf bounced to the ground, slightly stunned by such a strong blow. The Nordic King realized that he still held his sword in his hand, freed from the carcass of Brown. But he did not have time to use it before suffering a further blow. The black steel of the north countered with such vigour that the enemy weapon was shattered. The Green Skin having no weapon turned again on the Lord of the North, opening its fetid mouth it gave a powerful scream, covering the King of Trondheim with drooling saliva.

  The cry was drastically interrupted by the Dragon’s hammer, which destroyed the facial bones of the green monster, scattering the fragments all around. With its jaw and cheekbones in pieces, and eyes mashed, the green beast retreated uncertainly. His scream was choked in his throat gurgling with black blood, invading its throat and lungs, but the Orc still did not fall, continuing to wave
its arms around, hitting only trees and rocks with its claws. King Holaf ended that enemy by slicing it just under the steel plate, protecting its muscular chest. With its guts on the ground the enemy Green fell, still waving its arms and trying to collect its intestines together. The voice of the steel was heard loud and clear all around. However many adversaries the men could knock down, still more arrived so that all the immense effort of the warriors was in vain.

  High rapidly danced between two dazed Browns and confused by his dexterity and speed. For the God-Slayer, they were easy prey. He persuaded one Brown to give a mighty blow with his cudgel smashing the head of the other Brown, making it explode in a black cloud of blood. Confused by this event, the monster tried to lift up the companion, shaking it and screaming. The God-Slayer took advantage of the opportunity while the enemy was distracted and in an outburst of anger he decapitated the beast.

  Not all Orcs were so clumsy and nor were all men as skilled as King High. Any hesitation was enough to be dismembered or chewed, as long as there was still life in a body to suffer and breath to scream. The Bear's Head tried in vain to save a companion of Vyborg, attacked and dismembered by the fury of the Browns, fighting like dogs to share a bone. The poor body lay lifeless in the fingers of a beast, which concentrated on satiating itself with the red entrails, while the legs served as an appetizer for his companion. A feeling of disgust arose in the heart of the fourth Nordic rune. But all he could do was give a huge scream of anger. Fast and whistling through the air, his blade tore at the throat of the wicked and greedy creature, giving the north yet another victory. The second diner reacted angrily at the sight of a new and more appetizing meal, spat the stripped leg bones and, brandishing a large piece of wood, beat the ground, creating a thunderous sound and large splashes of reddish mud. There was no time to sink a blade into its flabby, horrendous body, as a fist hit the warrior of the fourth symbol, making him fall to his knees. The Bear, fallen down before the cudgel raised straight in the air, seemed to be ready for the grave.

  The mortal epilogue was avoided only thanks to the intervention of the three knights escorting King High, who scored two perfect shots in the eyes of the brown assailant putting an end to his anger. The big body staggered like a tree about to crash to the ground, the Bear's Head was dragged, still confused, by an archer from the east, just before the ruinous fall of the Orc. Daring and effective, the knights of Tulsky, as was usual when they fought together, were able to get the better of numerous enemies, stacking their lifeless bodies around their position.

  Climbing the wall of sacks of dark bleeding flesh, a soldier saw how many enemies were still gathering before them. The man, turning to King High, engaged in a duel, cried out:

  "Sire, there are too many of them, we won't be able to hold the position for much longer!

  The soldier did not have time to turn around before a large Green skin came over the wall of the corpses with his arms apart, brandishing two huge stone hammers. The enemy swung the two weapons together violently, squashing the Green man's head. The helmet did not withstand the tremendous pressure. There was a loud sound of stone meeting stone. From the holes of the devastated helmet boiled blood red juice and brain matter mixed with meat. The soldier rolled to the foot of the wall toward his companions, covered by splashes of death. His body still jolted a couple of times and then died in a macabre, dark-coloured quagmire.

  Tulsky's lancers did not wait for a moment, before attacking the big Green beast, burying the tip of their long and resistant spears several times in the green flesh. The beast gave heavy hammer blows at each spear, but they did not break, but the vibration increased the damage and pain. Arian climbed, as fast as a cat, over the corpses of the Orcs, to a position right under the beast nailed by the spears, and stuck his sword in deeply. The Commander of Tulsky took care to move the massive iron body armour, painted with decorations similar to the rock paintings of early men. The Green beast settled on the Orcs Mountain increasing its height, while its companions were in some difficulty among the branches of the forest, which was revealed as an excellent choice of battlefield. All around the increasingly small number of soldiers the bush land was shaking and growling, swarming with Brown and Green skins.

  The strength of the men was slowly abandoning their bodies. They could not even rejoice with every defeated Orc because of the rapidly growing numbers of their opponents. The third Master of War, honouring his title and his hammer, had built around him a barricade of dead enemies, but in his plans he yearned for the life of the last beast. Without the dog-like monsters, they would not be able to sniff out the warriors anymore, so they would have had some feeble hopes of a quick escape. They retreated, tree by tree, Green skins coming after Brown, until the warriors had tightened their circle and found themselves almost shoulder to shoulder.

  "The sniffing beast, where is he?" the Dragon asked, shouting anxiously, while he was smashing the skull of a stupid Brown Orc. All were too keen on survival, to find a way or the words to answer the question of the third rune of Trondheim.

  A scream of exceptional intensity silenced everyone, including Orcs. The trees trembled, flexed, and some collapsed to the ground. The trembling of the ground increased at each and every deep thud. When a pile of corpses was splattered by a kick, the big Captain burst in, screaming evil words in his own language. Holaf and High were close to each other and exchanged an uncertain look, not very convinced of a possible victory.

  The enormous Orc, like a troll, unleashed the worst of his bestial nature, starting his battle by wielding a squat weapon, with a profile like a butcher's tool rather than a chivalrous sword. The blows it gave were imprecise but of unprecedented violence hitting everything within its field of vision. It was clear to all that armour was useless given the force of the Orc. An unfortunate of Vyborg fell under the first blows despite the protection of his green shield, which finished up chopped in pieces. The warrior’s armour and its occupant came to the same end. In the fury of the assault, the green colossus also overwhelmed his companions without any problems. He crushed a soldier of Tulsky with his free hand, throwing his body far away, towards the north of the forest. King Holaf came forward facing the green captain with a fearless heart. The Lord of the North, having dodged a thrust with a rapid twist of his shoulders, struck his opponent on the arm and causing his steel to ring. The Orc tried to hit the King with the flat of his weapon, which stuck deep into the mud after the stroke failed. The enemy pulled up a large lump of mud a, but only moved the Long Sword a few steps to the side, without causing damage. Other empty blows followed, highlighting the speed of the Demon of Trondheim, which the beast underestimated. Holaf was not only master of heavy, telling blows, but also of lightning movements, able to disappear from the trajectory of the giant, who was at least twice as high and perhaps even more, than the Nordic King.

  The turning point in the duel came when fate, with sharp irony, caused the beast’s foot to get stuck in a hole in the ground, which he had just created, putting him at a disadvantage. As the Orc lost his balance the Lord of the North helped him to lie down with a powerful stroke of his sword, which fell on the Orc’s heavy bucket-shaped helmet. The sound of metal, followed by a heavy thud, made by the enormous green enemy, caught everyone's attention. At that very moment Holaf took a great leap landing heavily on top of his enemy. He stuck his long blade into the beast’s neck where it was not protected by the chinstrap. With a cry of anger and pain of the colossal animal became deaf and then aspirated, making a slight hissing sound. The Nordic Demon forcefully pushed his weapon until the head was divided from the neck, releasing a luxuriant flow of black blood on the ground. Holaf shouted in victory and raising his sword to the sky, painted a semicircle of blood in the air. It was a liberating gesture as well as an act of intimidation, in the hope of ruining the morale of enemy troops. The degenerate Orcs retreated, shocked by the vision of their defeated and beheaded leader, crowding into each other, wounding companions and moaning incomprehensible words.<
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  He was suddenly struck, as quick as lightning and as silent as death, King Holaf was grabbed and hurled to the ground by a mastiff-like monster. The animal's tusks made a breach in the royal armour, under the armpits where there was less steel to protect Holaf’s body. The King cried out in pain. The beast shook the Sovereign’s neck violently, holding it tight in his jaws. Then it tried to tear his arm off. But Holaf’s remarkable strength and his robust armour prevented further injury to the Lord of the North despite the previous damage. The retreat of the Orcs stopped. The creatures, full of renewed courage, returned to the charge again, blocking the nearest warriors from bringing relief to the Long Sword.

  King Holaf defended himself by punching the sides of the beast with his fists so hard that he smashed its ribs. But the monster did not look like at diminishing the violence of the blows he was inflicting. The Nordic Sovereign took his Demon’s helmet off and stuck what was left of a horn into the eye of the beast with all his remaining strength, hoping to have some sort of effect. The stultifying beast, with its exploded eyeball and blood dripping, gave vent to its anger, lifting and slamming the Long Sword to the ground with such violent enthusiasm that he lost his senses.

  The faithful hammer of the third rune, avoiding battle with many enemies, went to the aid of his King in trouble, throwing himself into an almost desperate race. The Dragon's Head threw his shield and freed his axe from his belt to hit a Brown that was trying to block his path, on the snout. He did not rescue a Vyborg knight, assaulted by too many enemies. Nothing mattered to the Dragon, except for saving the one who had helped him many times. He stuck the blade of the axe in the neck of the beast and then hammered it thoroughly cutting the spine of the mastiff-like monster. Having freed the Long Sword, the third northern rune immediately understood the seriousness of the wound inflicted on his King. Blood gushed abundantly from the wound he had suffered; in addition, the time to treat it was limited, given the renewed warlike spirit of the Orcs.